


as we go marching, marching

by GRBookworm1818



Series: as we go marching, marching [1]
Category: 1917 (Movie 2019), Pride (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Coffee Shop, Found Family, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, hell yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 09:28:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24348763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GRBookworm1818/pseuds/GRBookworm1818
Summary: London, 1986: a chance encounter between Tom Blake and Will Schofield at London Pride leads to something neither of them expected.
Relationships: Joe "Bromley" Cooper & Steph, Tom Blake/William Schofield
Series: as we go marching, marching [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1855489
Comments: 58
Kudos: 86





	1. London Pride '86

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for some blood and one instance of homophobic slurs.
> 
> Edit: I do not own any of the characters in this story; they belong to the films 1917 (2019) or Pride (2014). No disrespect is meant to the real-life individuals on which certain characters are based.

Tom was most certainly _not_ in the middle of London in order to see ’86 Pride. If anyone asked him, he was in the middle of London because he had been looking for his brother’s flat and gotten lost. Never mind that his brother lived in Redbridge; he had gotten _very_ lost. He was looking for the Underground station, or something. Now he was in London proper, and had just happened to come across the Pride route by accident. He figured he might as well take a look while he was there, see what it was all about. Completely out of an intellectual curiosity, obviously.

He jogged toward the source of shouting and stood at the side of the street, watching people marching together and holding up banners that said things like _WE FIGHT FOR EQUALITY_ and _QUEERS: BETTER BLATANT THAN LATENT_. Interspersed with these banners were others that seemed to be from various mining towns. Tom could faintly recall something in the papers a while back – a group of gays from London that had supported some Welsh miners.

For a moment, looking at all the people marching and chanting together, he wanted to join them.

“Fucking _perverts_!”

Tom turned reflexively at the noise and felt a sharp pain on his forehead. A can clattered to the pavement in front of him, and he stared dumbly at it. He stumbled backwards and abruptly collided with someone marching the opposite way.

“Alright there?” called a voice from above Tom’s head. He tried to say something but couldn’t find the words. He was sitting down. When had he sat down? He blinked once and then blinked again when something dripped into his eye.

“Come on,” said the voice, “let’s get you up, then. Jeff, take the banner, would you?” A hand clasped his, and he had just enough time to process how fucking massive the hand looked compared to his before he was being hauled up, other hands pulling at his shoulders.

“Get him out of the crush,” said a different voice, and Tom was guided to the pavement, the same massive hand still clasped around his. He sat down carefully, and the other hands left him.

“There we are,” said the first voice, and a face came into view in front of Tom. It was a young man, Tom’s age or a bit older, with blond hair. He was crouched down in front of Tom, looking at him worriedly. One of his hands was still holding Tom’s.   
On an intellectual level Tom knew that there was a load of people passing by, chanting or yelling slurs and generally making a ruckus. But on every other level, all the noise had disappeared as the man stared at him with big blue eyes.

Sometimes life was really fucking unfair.

“Pupils are the same size, that’s good,” the man muttered. “I’ve got some plasters here.”

He took his hand from Tom’s and broke eye contact to rummage around in his bag, then shifted to sit down next to Tom and pulled out a handful of plasters.

“Head wounds bleed lots,” he informed Tom, “so let’s just get that cleaned up a bit first, yeah? Then we can head to hospital if you’d like, get it looked at. What’s your name? How do you feel?”

Tom was still processing and grieving the loss of the man’s hand in his, but at this he jumped slightly and said, “Blake. Uh. Tom. Blake. Is my name. And . . . fine, I feel fine. Don’t need hospital.”

In truth he felt a little lightheaded, but he couldn’t be sure if that was due to the head wound or the man sitting next to him.

The man in question smiled and Tom momentarily forgot to breathe. Probably not the head wound, then, though it was still a distant throb in his consciousness.

“You sure about that, Blake-uh-Tom-Blake?” the man asked gently. “I’m Will. Turn your head a bit this way?”

Tom did so obediently and was treated to the sight of Will’s brow furrowing as he wiped Tom’s forehead. The cloth came away red and Tom felt faint, but he swallowed hard and focused on the feeling of the warm pavement under his palms.

“I’m sure,” he said. “I’ve had worse.”

Will huffed out a laugh. “Fair enough. Need you to close your eyes.”

Tom complied. He startled slightly at the feeling of a cool wet cloth wiping against his eyebrow. Then there was a hand on his shoulder, a point of warmth grounding him. The cloth moved to wipe gently against his eyelid.

“You’re doing well,” said Will quietly. Tom wished it didn’t make him feel better.

“Thanks,” he mumbled.

“Can open your eyes now,” Will said. Tom’s eyes fluttered open and he saw Will peering at him again. His eyes really were very blue.

“Looks like I’ve gotten the blood off,” said the blond. “Just needs a plaster now. Maybe a tetanus shot.”

Tom nodded and cleared his throat. For once, he didn’t know what to say. So he said the first thing that came to mind.

“You, uh,” he said as Will stuck on the plaster, “You one of ‘em, then? A gay?”

Will jerked his hand back from Tom’s forehead like it was a hot stove. His smile was still there, but it looked much more forced.

In hindsight, with the plaster pulling at his skin and Will’s jaw clenching, it had been a colossally stupid idea to say the first thing that had come to mind. Tom was only sorry he hadn’t realized this approximately two seconds sooner.

“That’s – that’s right,” said Will. He was no longer looking at Tom. “’S not contagious or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He began to stand up and Tom panicked.

“Wait! Hang on,” he grabbed at Will’s hand and hoisted himself up, noting with some distant relief that the taller man grabbed ahold of him for support.

“That isn’t what – I mean, I – I’m sorry. I just – I don’t know. I don’t _know_. How could you tell?”

His voice dropped to a whisper halfway through, and Will’s face seemed to open back up slightly, though he still let go of Tom’s hand far too early. He paused, then rummaged around in his bag again and pulled out a small card, which he handed to Tom. He held the card by its edge; Tom wondered if it was deliberate so that their fingers wouldn’t touch as he took it.

“Where I work,” said Will. “Everyone’s – well, some of us – meeting there after the parade’s done. You can – come by if you like, we could chat. Up to you.”

His tone was deliberately neutral, but his eyes were warmer than they had been. Tom tried to speak and found he couldn’t – he could only nod frantically.

“I – you – thank – yeah. Yeah.”

Will’s eyes flicked to Tom’s forehead and his brow furrowed.

“You _sure_ you don’t want to get that looked at?” he asked.

“It’s – it’s fine,” Tom said with more confidence than he felt. “Minor wound.”

The corner of Will’s mouth twitched upward. “Minor wound,” he repeated. “Take care, Blake.”

He smiled at Tom, then turned away to join the parade again.

All the noise rushed back in, and Tom was abruptly reminded that he had in fact come here for a genuine reason. He looked down at the business card Will had given him. It read _GAY’S THE WORD BOOKSHOP_ , with an address and phone number below the name.

Tom smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for some blood and one instance of homophobic slurs.
> 
> Edit: some explanatory notes here.  
> \- The "Queers: Better Blatant Than Latent" banner Tom sees is directly lifted from the opening of Pride (2014).  
> \- Will is intended to be a substitute for the character Joe "Bromley" Cooper from Pride, who was also played by George Mackay. (Joe was made up as a surrogate for the audience anyway, so I don't feel too bad about subbing him out). As such, he will be referred to as "Will" or "Bromley" depending on who is speaking.  
> \- There will be characters from Pride (2014) and from 1917 (2019), but the overall universe is that of Pride (2014) i.e. 1980s Britain.


	2. Across the Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's probably obvious from reading, but I am not from the UK and as such have very little knowledge of things like slang or how the Underground system works. Please let me know if there are any glaring errors which I can correct.

Technically Tom wasn’t expected at Joe’s flat until half six – that was the time he’d rattled off when asked about it – so he still had a good few hours to spend, judging by his watch. The cut on his forehead was a distant thing that only throbbed when he thought about it.

He bought himself a sandwich and watched the rest of the parade, marveling at the easy affection the marchers seemed to show each other – clasping hands, smiling at each other, the occasional brief hug. It made something in him ache when he dwelled on it too long. On impulse, he begged a pencil off someone and scribbled his home number on a scrap of newsprint, with _BLAKE (HOME)_ beneath it. Luckily, the parade ended before he could work himself up into too much of a snit. After the last of the marchers had gone, and the bobbies had dispersed, Tom found himself at a temporary loss. For a while he wandered around the area, making a slow rambling way to Bloomsbury, where the bookshop was.

He eventually ended up across the street from _GAY’S THE WORD_ , and for a while that was the closest he got. To walk across the street, even to look in the window of the shop, felt like – not quite a crime, but something close to it. Something worthy of scolding, if nothing more. Actually going in seemed unthinkable, and yet at the same time it was right there. He could just go in. Just walk across the street, open the door, and go in. Tom looked at the storefront and thought it mocked him with its big bold letters, its piles of books – Tom couldn’t imagine who might have written them – stacked neatly in the windows. The shop was an opportunity, and it was out of his reach. It wasn’t even open, for fuck’s sake, so he couldn’t go in in the first place. He was wasting his time, loitering on the street corner.

Tom had just made up his mind to leave and chalk the whole thing up to ‘wasn’t meant to be’ when a group of loudly talking people came around the corner. One of them, a blond with sunglasses and a colorful hat, had his voice raised above the rest.

“—carry the bloody banner!” he was saying, before launching into an exaggeratedly shrill voice.

“‘Excuse me while I shirk my duties to play Florence _bloody_ Nightingale with a bloke who ran into me!’ That’s what you sounded like, that’s what –”

“I do _not_ sound like that,” came a suspiciously familiar voice. “And I had plasters, what was I supposed to do, run him over?”

Tom couldn’t help but search the group, and when Will’s face briefly came into view he felt an inexplicable sense of relief. The group continued over to _GAY’S THE WORD_ and one of them, a shorter dark-haired man, produced a bundle of keys from his pocket, to the cheers of the others. He opened the door and the group filed in, one after the other.

As it happened, Will was the last to go in. He glanced behind him to where Tom was standing and did a double take. Tom raised his hand in a shy wave, which Will returned hesitantly, along with a _come on_ gesture to the inside of the shop and a raised eyebrow. Tom took a deep breath and forced his foot to step off the curb. From there, he walked almost mechanically toward the shop, until he found himself standing in front of Will.

“Uh,” he said, “hi. Hello.” Once again, his speaking ability had deserted him when he needed it most.

Will smiled at him. “Hello,” he said. “Uh, weren’t sure you’d show, to be honest. Want to come in?”

Tom blinked. That was an excellent question.

“I – could we talk out here? For now? I d – I don’t know if, uh.”

How was he meant to say that he _did_ want to go into the store, he _did_ want to see the books and listen to Will talk about them – but. But the fear was still there, the feeling that he was doing something wrong just by _wanting_ to do those things – let alone actually doing them.

Will nodded. He didn’t look as excited, but there was understanding in his eyes.

“We can talk out here for now,” he said. “I – I know what it’s like, believe me. Don’t want to force you, or anything. But I think it’d be good for you to come in later. Yeah?”

With those eyes looking at him so hopefully, Tom could only nod.

“Yeah, ‘course,” he said. With a burst of relief he realized the words were coming more easily, and he continued. “This is all just, you know, new for me.”

“First Pride?” Will asked with a small smile.

“First anything, really,” Tom admitted. He was surprised but delighted to hear Will laugh at that.

“Sorry,” said Will, “it’s just, I said the same thing at my first Pride. Two years ago now.”

“Two years?”

It had been less than a day, but already it was strange for Tom to think of Will as someone who had been in the same place as he was now. He tried to imagine a younger, closeted version of the man walking beside him.

“That’s right,” said Will. “I joined the marching, and Mike – he’s another member – gave me a banner to hold, and that was the start for me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They walked beside each other in silence for a few moments. Every so often, their hands almost brushed each other, and each time it happened Tom tried to fight down the blush that crept over his face and neck. Finally, Will cleared his throat.

“So you said, earlier,” he began in an undertone, “you wanted to know how I _knew_. Is that still – do you still want to know?” Tom looked over at him and was suddenly extremely conscious of the other people moving past them. He wondered if they could tell Will was gay, looking at him. He wondered if they could tell _he_ was - different.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I’d still like to, if that’s alright.”

They continued to walk as Will nodded.

After another few moments, they came to an alleyway. Will ducked inside and leaned against the wall of a building; Tom followed suit, standing further inside the alley. Will turned to him, looking at him appraisingly, then turned back to face the opposite building.

“It’s hard to explain,” he said quietly, “but it’s a bit like – I felt like I was waiting to become normal, if that makes sense."

Tom said nothing, but stared at Will’s profile.

"I knew there was something different about me," Will continued, "something, uh, _unspoken_. It was like I was waiting to one day wake up and – you know – be like everyone else. Be like everyone expected me to. And I pretended that it had happened, on the outside, but I was waiting for it to happen for real.”

He paused. His eyes were fixed on something in the distance, beyond the opposite wall of the alley. 

Tom watched his profile and waited, until Will took a deep breath and turned to him. There was something oddly vulnerable in his eyes.

“Will you come into the shop with me?” Will asked earnestly.

Tom looked up at him and was abruptly aware of the height difference between them. 

It did not frighten him, exactly, but it sent something like fear swooping through his stomach.

“I – there’s a book I’d like to show you," Will continued. " _Maurice_ , by Forster. I read it when I was nineteen, at uni, and it – I can’t even describe how it was, to see something like how I felt being shown as – as _okay_. Changed my life, really. That was when I really started to understand. Same year I went to my first Pride.”

For a shimmering moment the two stood, suspended in silence and looking at each other. Tom was nervous to even breathe, like that would cause the moment to burst like a soap bubble.

Someone passed the alleyway and glanced inside briefly. The feeling of their eyes on him – on him and Will – was like a bucket of cold water, and Tom inhaled sharply. With some effort, he tore his gaze from Will’s and glanced absently down at his watch. He did a double take.

“Oh _hell_ ,” he muttered, peering at the face to be sure it was accurate. It was nearly six.

When Tom glanced back up, Will was looking at him with concern. The moment had burst.

“Everything alright?” Will asked cautiously. Tom wanted to scream, but settled for internally cursing the concept of time, his brother, his brother’s flat, and the entire Underground system.

“My brother’s expecting me at half six,” he said, looking away from Will. “It’s – he’s in bloody _Redbridge_ , and I lost track of time. I – I need to go.”

He wished it didn’t sound like an excuse.

Tom couldn’t bring himself to look at Will, but he heard him say, quietly, “Oh. I – my bad.”

Daring to look up, Tom saw Will had moved away from him, back towards the entrance to the alley. His face was closed off, as it had briefly been during the parade – after Tom had made an arse of himself, not for the last time that day. It hurt.

Tom knew he should be running to the nearest Underground station, but his feet were stuck to the pavement. Words were bubbling up behind his mouth, threatening to spill over, but nothing came out.

Will looked at him again, and then turned to walk away.

“Wait!”

For the second time that day, Tom grabbed at Will’s hand.

“I’ll come back,” he found himself saying. He was still holding Will’s hand. “To the shop. I promise.”

Will turned back to him, a conflicted expression on his face. “It’s your choice,” he said, sounding resigned. “Maybe I’ll see you around. Take care, Blake.”

Tom nodded and then, impulsively, reached out with his other hand to clasp Will’s.

“Take care,” he said, before letting go of Will’s hand and turning to run in the direction of the nearest station.

As he ran, he thought of the scrap of newsprint he had tucked into Will’s hand: an apology and a plea at once, an outstretched hand.

He hoped Will kept it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't heard of Maurice by E.M. Forster, I highly recommend it. There's also a movie adaptation from 1987 (!!) with James Wilby, Rupert Graves and Hugh Grant.  
> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Edit: explanatory notes  
> \- Gay's the Word is a real bookshop in London, and I got information about it (location, history, etc) from Wikipedia https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gay%27s_the_Word_(bookshop)


	3. Gay's the Word

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own any of the characters here, and they are based entirely on their fictional depictions in Pride (2014) and/or 1917 (2019). No disrespect is intended to any of the real individuals on which the characters are based.

The next time Tom was in the middle of London, he really had no other excuse for being there. He had rattled off something about a supposed record shop in Bloomsbury to Joe, who seemed to have accepted it at face value. At the least, he hadn’t questioned it, and he hadn’t mentioned the plaster on Tom’s forehead either, thank fuck. Tom knew he wouldn’t be so lucky with his mum; she’d been anxious about him going to see Joe on his own in the first place, and the plaster would do him no favors.

But he could think about that later. Now, once again, he was standing in front of _GAY’S THE WORD_.

He felt somehow rejuvenated – he _was_ going to go in, he _was_ going to talk to Will. Those things which had been unattainable before were now well within his reach. He could do this. He could, and he would. In a moment.

Tom was not giving himself a pep talk, and as such was not at all startled when the door to the shop opened with a jingle and someone poked his head out. It was the dark-haired man from before, who had had the keys to the shop. He was looking at Tom with narrowed eyes.

“Either come in and buy something,” he said, “or clear off. Scare my regulars, standing out there like that.”

Tom, as stated, did not jump or yelp at the man’s voice. He looked over casually from where he’d been staring at the books, and said, quite eloquently, “Ah. Uh. Yes?”

The man stared at him and held open the door to the shop.

“Come in,” he repeated, “or clear off.”

Tom blinked, and found himself walking toward the door.

“I, I g – I’ll come in,” he stammered. “If, if that’s alright.”

The man shrugged and gestured to the inside of the shop.

“Your choice,” he said with exaggerated nonchalance. He had a nametag that said _GETHIN_ on it pinned to his shirt.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Tom slipped past him and walked into the shop proper. At first glance, it looked rather like any bookshop that could be found on the street. But on closer inspection, there were elements that were – well – gay.

An entire bookshelf labeled _COMING OUT STORIES_ ; sections titled _QUEER THEORY_ and _QUEER FICTION_ ; and on the wall, a black-and-white poster for a concert in ’84, titled _PITS AND PERVERTS: FEATURING BRONSKI BEAT & GUESTS_. There were a few others in the shop browsing the shelves, presumably the “regulars” the man – Gethin – had mentioned. Tom saw a mixture of men and women, some with outlandish hair colors.

He shook out his clammy hands and turned to Gethin, who was looking at him skeptically.

“I, uh –” Tom struggled to meet the man’s gaze – “do you – is Will here today?”

Gethin stared at him with some bafflement.

“Will,” he said, as if testing the sound of the name. Tom nodded.

“Will,” Gethin said again, more flatly. “Does this Will have a last name, perchance?”

The feeling of dawning realization that crept over Tom at that moment was all too familiar. He blinked and looked at the floor of the shop.

“I, uh, I don’t know his last name,” he muttered to the carpet, which failed to reply.

“Lovely,” said Gethin. “Well, I couldn’t tell you whether or not there’s a Will here. Maybe one of these fine purveyors of literature –” he swept his arm around the shop – “is Will. _A_ Will, at least; 's a rather common name here, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“He said he worked here,” Tom said, with a sinking feeling in his chest.

Gethin sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look,” he said, “you – what’s your name?”

“Tom Blake.”

“Look, Tom,” Gethin continued, “even _if_ you knew the last name of this Will fellow, I couldn’t tell you whether or not he’s here _or_ whether or not he’s an employee. Shop policy, for safety reasons. You get it?”

Tom nodded glumly. 

For a moment he was at a loss, then he remembered something Will had mentioned.

“Do you, um, do you have the book _Maurice_ here? By Forster, Forrester, something like that?”

Gethin raised an eyebrow. “Sure,” he said. “E. M. Forster. It’s over here in Queer Fiction, alphabetical by last name.”

Gethin and Tom moved toward the section and peered at the book spines, Gethin tracking them with his finger until his face lit up and he pulled out a peach-colored paperback.

“Here it is,” he said proudly. “First edition. Three pounds, or four for the hardback.” He handed the book to Tom, who took it with consideration.

“Thanks,” Tom muttered, glancing over the book. It didn’t look like what he’d imagined gay books to look like – it had a picture of a man with crossed arms on the front, and a brief summary on the back.

“Anything else?” Gethin asked, shuffling slightly where he stood. “Or, uh –”

“I’m – I was gonna browse a bit, if that’s alright,” Tom interrupted. “See, uh, what else there is. Thanks very much.”

Gethin didn’t smile, but he nodded and his face softened slightly before he turned and walked away.

Tom stood next to the bookshelf for a moment before walking toward the concert poster. Looking closer, he saw that _LESBIANS AND GAYS SUPPORT THE MINERS_ was at the top. The name seemed vaguely familiar, but Tom couldn’t quite place it.

A woman with bright orange hair walked toward the poster and briefly glanced at him, then did a double take.

“Will it scar?” she asked casually, gesturing at his forehead. “Got you pretty good, looked like.”

Her voice sounded strangely familiar, and Tom realized it was the other voice he had heard at the march. A wild and unreasonable hope surged within him.

“Hope not,” he said as casually as he could. “I – someone named Will helped me with it, said he worked here. I’m Tom, by the way.”

The woman grinned at him.

“Steph,” she said, giving his hand a firm shake. “This Will – tall, blond? Looks a bit like a fish?”

“I – I guess?” Tom said, feeling a bit off-balance. He wasn't sure about that last bit.

Steph nodded wisely. “Sounds like our Bromley,” she said.

“Bromley?”

Steph chuckled. “I’m sure he said his name was Will when we first met,” she said thoughtfully, “but at that point, to be frank, his most distinguishing feature was his hometown. So we called him Bromley and it stuck.”

“That so?” There was something delightful in learning more about Will, even if it was indirect. Every answer only seemed to lead to more questions; he could make a hobby out of it, a lifestyle out of Will.

The idea was too lovely to look at directly, so Tom guided it to the back of his mind and kept it there.

“You two are friends, then?” he asked, unable to keep the hope from his voice.

Steph smirked at him and nodded. “Me and Will are flatmates. Not like _that_ ,” she added with exasperation, rolling her eyes at Tom’s frown. “Jesus, you lot are all the same.”

She brandished her book at him – a collection of poems by someone named Sappho.

He stared at her for a moment, confused. “You – _oh_ ,” he said, feeling like an idiot yet again. Steph nodded.

“I’m the _L_ in _LGSM_ ,” she said with a wink.

Tom nodded, half-caught in the memory of that acronym, and before he could think better of it, blurted out, “Does Will, uh, actually work here? Do you know?”

Steph looked at him, something like amusement in her face.

“He does,” she confirmed, “but it’s a second job – fairly irregular. Most days he works at a café in Covent Garden.”

“I see,” said Tom, more disappointed than he was willing to admit.

Steph gazed at him for a moment, then held out her hand and asked, “Could I see that book?”

Tom obliged, watching with some bewilderment as she pulled a pen from her bag and scribbled something on the inside cover, then handed it back to him.

“Afraid you’ll have to buy it now,” she said with a small smile.

Tom looked inside the book and saw a series of digits scrawled on the inside of the book, along with _S & B FLAT_. His heart leapt in his chest.

He looked at Steph disbelievingly, who tapped her nose at him and said, teasingly, “Don’t stay up too late. He gets off at half five.”

Tom smiled incredulously, and bought the book in a haze, dazedly waving goodbye to Steph as he left the shop. He had the distinct feeling she was laughing at him, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

The smile stayed on his face as he took the train and arrived at Joe’s flat, letting himself in with the key under the doormat. Joe would be home in a few hours – _Will_ would be at his flat in a few hours – and then Tom would have to explain why he hadn’t bought any records from the supposed records shop, and why he was calling a City number.

But until then . . .

Tom stared at the phone number again, trying to commit the digits to memory. Then he turned the page and began to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm hoping to get on a more regular updating schedule soon, maybe once a week or so. Until then, here's another chapter!  
> Edit: explanatory notes  
> \- Andrew Scott appears in both Pride (2014) as Gethin and in 1917 (2019) as Lt. Leslie, but I decided to only include Gethin in this story.


	4. Telephone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own any of the music mentioned in this chapter, or any of the characters. They belong to the films Pride (2014) and 1917 (2019), and no disrespect is meant to the real individuals on which they were based.

Maurice had just arrived at Cambridge when Tom glanced at his watch again and saw it was nearly six. The realization sent a jolt down his spine, even as he tried to dismiss it. Will probably wasn’t even at his flat yet – it would be silly to call now. Assuming, of course, Will would even _want_ him to call. Maybe he had been at the bookshop after all, and had been avoiding Tom – understandable, really, though the possibility pained him. Maybe he had asked Steph to give Tom a fake number to throw him off track, and Tom would call a complete stranger. Maybe –

Tom shook his head like a dog in from the rain. “Enough of that,” he muttered, clenching and unclenching one sweaty hand while his other held _Maurice_.

“Just do it, just bloody do it. ’s a fuckin’ phone call.” He repeated this mantra to himself as he forced himself to stand, walk over to the phone, and take it off the hook. Before he could put it back, he hastily dialed the number, glancing at the book to be sure he was getting it right. He held the phone up to his ear and waited, sitting perched on the back of the couch.

The phone rang three agonizing times before Tom heard a click on the other end and a man’s voice say, flustered, _“Hello?”_

Tom screwed his eyes shut in an exaggerated wince. “Uh, hi,” he began, “this – this is Tom Blake. From the, uh, parade. Is – is this Will?” He hardly dared to breathe. _“Blake?”_ said the voice incredulously, and with a burst of relief Tom recognized it as belonging to Will. He opened his eyes a sliver.

_“Yes, it – it’s Will. I – wow. Sorry, I didn’t expect it to be you on the phone.”_

Tom hoped it was a welcome surprise. “Uh, yeah,” he said awkwardly. “I, uh, went to that bookshop today and – well I didn’t see _you_ , but I think I met your flatmate – Steph? Orange hair? She said she’s your flatmate anyway – and she gave me the number for your flat. So I, uh, called. To chat, if that’s okay.”

 _“Of course that’s okay,”_ Will exclaimed. _“I – Jesus, Steph’s a bloody lifesaver. I realized the other day I hadn’t given you my home number, only for Gay’s the Word, and – yeah. Sorry, I should’ve been more specific: I only work part-time at the shop, whenever Gethin needs extra help, and I wasn’t in today.”_

He sounded genuinely regretful, and Tom had the absurd urge to soothe him. “That’s alright,” he said, “no harm done. Where do you normally work?”

 _“It’s a little café over in, uh, Covent Garden,”_ Will began, _“near the, uh, Covent Garden Market. The,_ The Piping Kettle _, it’s called. Tea and baked goods, essentially.”_ Tom listened attentively and made a _go on_ noise in the back of his throat when Will faltered.

 _“Um,”_ the other continued, _“the – well, the Market means there’s lots of fresh ingredients to use nearby, which is really_ really _important in baking, but – but it also means getting up at ungodly hours to grab the best stuff before it’s gone. Bit of a pain, but worth it, I think.”_ As Will spoke, his voice became faster and more confident, more excited. Tom had never heard someone speak so passionately about ingredients before.

 _“Like, as an example, fruit tarts just aren’t the same when you use older berries, or, or_ frozen _, God forbid. And pie pastry comes out the absolute_ best _when you use good butter. Maybe I’m being snobby about it, but. Oh, but – sorry, I’ve been talking too much. Uh – where, where do_ you _work?”_

Tom snapped back to reality. “I don’t think you’re snobby,” he said automatically. “You – uh, it sounds like you’re really passionate about this sort of thing. Baking and such.”

 _“I, yeah, I am,”_ Will said with a laugh. _“I’d like to be a baker, of some kind, as a job. Pastries and such. If I can.”_

“That sounds brilliant,” Tom said. “And – and you don’t talk too much. That’s my thing, really.”

 _“Perish the thought,”_ said Will, and Tom could hear the smile in his voice. _“But anyway, where_ do _you work?”_

Tom was saved from having to answer by the arrival of his brother, who could be heard knocking and swearing loudly on the other side of the door. “Fucking – Tom? You there? Let me in, would you? Forgot the bloody keys.” Tom looked over to see the key from under the doormat on the table next to him. He floundered, then muttered “Excuse me a moment” into the phone and set it carefully on its side, along with the book.

He ran to the door, unlocked it and threw it open. “I’m on a phone call,” he hissed. “Fucking _shut it_ , okay?”

He knew, at once, that he had made a grave mistake when Joe’s eyes lit up. “A _phone call_?” he echoed, raising his voice. “Who you on a _phone call_ with? Is it a _girl_ , Tom?” Joe started toward the door.

Thinking quickly, Tom slammed the door shut in his brother’s face and ran back to the phone. When he picked it up, he could hear Will talking to someone in the background. “My brother’s home,” Tom said hurriedly, “and he – he doesn’t _know_. Would – I’ll come up with something to explain it, just go along with it, please?”

 _“Oh – sure, of course,”_ Will said, his voice brimming with amusement.

The door opened a minute later to show Joe with a teasing smile on his face. “That how you treat the man of the ‘ouse?” he said loudly as he strolled in and shut the door behind him. “I hope whoever you’re speaking to’s better mannered than you, ’s all I’ll say.”

“ _Much_ better,” Tom said tartly. “Not as good taste in music –” he faintly heard a tinny sound of protest from Will – “but ‘s a work in progress, as they say. Met ‘im at that record shop in Bloomsbury, what I mentioned before.”

Joe nodded and walked to the fridge, opening it to peer inside. “Just don’t talk too long,” he said, at a much more reasonable volume. “Bloody rent sucks me dry without the phone bill too.”

Tom nodded at him and turned his attention back to Will. “I, uh, what were we talking about?”

 _“You were accusing me of having poor music taste,”_ Will responded smartly, _“which is categorically unfair and untrue.”_

Tom could tell he was grinning. “Is that so?”

 _“Positively. I’ll have you know I listen to_ Fantastic _on a constant loop. ‘Careless Whisper’ is the height of musical achievement.”_

“Hang on – from fucking _Wham!_? Are you _serious_? I don’t know if we can be friends anymore.”

 _“Fuck off!”_ Will was full-on laughing now, and Tom felt himself joining in. The thrill of panic that had flared up when he referred to the two of them as _friends_ died down slightly, though Tom still hoped Will wouldn’t comment on it.

When the laughter had faded, Tom heard Will speaking again to someone else in the background. It was a female voice, but too indistinct to recognize.

Will’s voice came back on the line, more clearly. _“Steph – uh, Steph says hello,"_ he said, _"and she’s glad you called, especially because I_ – hey,” his voice was directed at the person in the background, “that’s not fair! I just didn’t think of it! – _but rent is already bloody ridiculous and we’ve apparently been on the phone long enough._ Like you don’t hog the phone when you’re chatting with Lauri, hypocrite. _Anyway. I’m sorry, I’ve got to go get us some supper. But it’s been wonderful talking with you, Blake, really it has. Thanks so much for calling_.”

“Thanks for answering,” Tom replied without thinking. Will chuckled and it made Tom feel warm. “Oh – one more thing?” he added. “What, uh, what’s your last name, please?”

_“My last name? It’s Schofield. Will Schofield – well, I guess William, but nobody calls me that. And is this a good number to call in, uh, in the future?”_

Tom managed not to giggle like a schoolgirl at the thought of Will calling in _the future_. “This, uh, ‘s a different number, actually. I’m at my brother’s flat. Got a pen?”

He listed out the numbers and listened to the scratching of Will’s pen against paper, and his little hums when he had written down each digit.

_“Do you – how, uh, how much longer you planning to stay there?”_

“Remains to be seen,” Tom said, watching his brother break a handful of pasta and dump it into a pot on the stove. Joe turned to Tom and mouthed _HELP ME WITH SUPPER_ , and Tom nodded.

 _“Alright. Well, I’ll – I’ll see you around, maybe?”_ Will’s voice was hesitant.

“I – yeah, I hope so,” Tom said. “I’ll call you, uh, tomorrow? Same time? My brother’s making supper, wants my help.”

_“Sounds good! Take care, Blake.”_

“You too. Take, uh, take care.” Tom set the phone back on its hook and let out a deep breath.

“Are you coming?” Joe said from the kitchen. “This salad won’t bloody well rinse itself, will it?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tom muttered, still caught up in tinny laughter. He had a pensive look on his face as he got up and went to the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No offense is meant to the music group Wham! or its members, I just needed a group for Tom to mock. Thanks for reading, and have a good day!


	5. Telephone II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought I'd try switching up the POV a bit! There's some potentially distressing stuff in this chapter, but to avoid spoilers, specific trigger warnings are in the end notes.

True to his word, Tom called again the next evening. They talked about everything and nothing, with Tom’s brother occasionally making loud remarks in the background – much to Tom’s annoyance and Will’s amusement. When the two had settled into a temporary and comfortable silence, Tom cleared his throat with a crackle of static on the other end.

 _“I, uh,”_ he began, _“well – remember how I’m at my brother’s flat?”_

“You have a brother?” Will said sardonically. “I couldn’t tell.”

 _“Piss off,”_ came the reply. _“But yeah, I’m staying with him – and, uh, I might’ve found a job nearby. Records shop looking for an assistant with, and I quote, ‘exemplary music taste and customer service skills.’ Got an interview tomorrow.”_

“That’s brilliant,” Will said. He determinedly kept his voice casual as he asked, “So you’re staying for the summer, then?”

 _“Hopefully,”_ Tom replied. _“I mean, Joe’s fine with it, and so’s my mum – she wants me to get work experience before, uh, going back to uni.”_

“Going back? What’re you studying?”

 _“Education,”_ and Tom’s voice had gotten shy. _“I, uh, I’d like to be a teacher, I think. I’m starting my, uh, second year at Lond this fall.”_

“That sounds lovely,” Will said with a smile. “You’d be a good teacher, I think.”

_“Yeah? Why’s that?”_

“You talk enough for it.”

He heard Tom give a measured sigh through the phone. A bolt of anxiety abruptly coursed through him as he wondered if he had pushed too much, if he had been too casual, if –

 _“Fair enough,”_ Tom said grudgingly, though his smile was audible. Will laughed and felt a weight lifted off his chest.

“Listen,” he said, glancing at the stove, “I’m almost done with supper here. I – sorry, I’ve got to go for now.”

 _“Alright,”_ Tom replied easily. _“Talk tomorrow? Same time?”_

“Same time,” Will repeated, feeling lighter still. “Take care, Blake.”

_“You too, Will.”_

Will carefully set the phone back on its hook and rushed to stir the bubbling pot on the stove. As he did so, the door to the bedroom opened to reveal a yawning Steph. Her clothes were wrinkled, and her hair was a bird’s nest. She slumped into the kitchen and settled herself at the table with a deep sigh, burying her head in her crossed arms.

“Pasta and salad,” Will said as he drained the pot and carried it to the table. Steph gave a muffled groan in response, but lifted her head and focused on the food. The two ate in silence, until Will glanced at the clock. His eyes widened.

“Uh – Steph? It’s nearly eight.” Steph nodded blearily, then paused and sat bolt upright.

“Shit,” she muttered as she leapt from the table and ran back into the bedroom. Will got up as well and pulled a brown paper bag from the breadbox, setting it at Steph’s place. Steph ran back into the kitchen with her hair hastily brushed and her jacket on. She grabbed the paper bag and sniffed it, then grinned tiredly at Will. “Lifesaver, Bromley,” she said. Will returned the smile and saw her to the door, where she slipped on her heavy boots and rushed out.

Once she had gone, Will finished eating and washed up. He sat on the couch and flipped through his copy of _Giovanni’s Room_ , very carefully not looking at the phone. After an indeterminable amount of time, the phone began to ring.

He let it go for three rings, then picked it up on the fourth. That was what they had agreed upon.

_“Q?”_

“Bond,” Will replied automatically. On the other end, his sister sighed with a burst of static, and relief rushed through him.

 _“Sorry I haven’t been able to call recently,”_ she said in the same hushed tone. _“Livvy’s colicky and it’s been a bloody_ nightmare _trying to put her down for more than a half hour at a time. Think she’s finally sleeping now, so.”_

“That sounds awful,” Will said. “I – thanks for calling, Tina.” He hoped she could hear all the things that went unsaid in that sentence.

 _“Of course, Will,”_ she said with a yawn. _“So, uh – how’ve you been? Still at that posh café?”_

Will hummed in affirmation. “Can’t complain,” he replied, though it was cut off by a yawn. “Long bloody hours, but it pays alright.”

 _“Good, that’s good.”_ Tina paused. _“Will, you – you know I’d send money if I could. It’s just –”_

“I know,” he interrupted. “I know you would. But I’m doing alright, promise. Don’t worry.”

 _“Don’t tell me what to do,”_ his sister retorted. _“I’ll worry about you as much as I bloody well like.”_

There was a pause, and when Tina started speaking again, her voice was different. Tighter, like a wound-up spring.

 _“Will,”_ she said, _“there’s – there’s something you should know. It’s about Grandad.”_

Will felt all the air rush out of his body. It was a little like how he had felt when he had gone home and seen his mother crying, when he had realized that they _knew_. It had been almost worse than what had happened next.

He coughed to loosen the dread lodged in his throat, and managed to croak, “What is it?”

His sister inhaled shakily on the other end, and said, _“Will, he – he’s dying. It’s cancer. They – the doctors don’t know how long he’s got left.”_

Will was silent.

 _“He’s at Priory, in Hayes Grove,”_ she continued, sounding close to tears. _“Will, are you there?”_

“I’m here,” Will said with great effort. One hand held the phone, and the other was clenched into a white-knuckled fist on his knee. Mixed with the dread in his chest was another, simmering feeling. He thought, in the back of his mind, that it might have been anger, though he couldn’t say what it was directed at. He exhaled and spoke in a low, quivering voice. “I – when was the – the diagnosis? When did you find out?”

 _“Last week,”_ whispered Tina. Will saw red.

“And you didn’t tell me,” he said flatly. “Nobody told me.”

_“Will, I’m so sorry. I wanted to call you, but – but Livvy, and Jason –”_

Will slammed the phone back onto its receiver before he had time to think about it. The only thing worse than the anger and the grief swirling inside him was the _disappointment_. Like he still expected his parents to tell him what was going on in the family, like he still hoped they would reach out despite over a fucking _year_ of silence. He shouldn’t have expected anything different; he should be grateful his sister bothered to keep in touch with him at all, even if she had to make it like the fucking MI6 with her goddamn code words so it’d stay secret. If she was ashamed of him, why couldn’t she just say it? Why was he holding on to her – to any of them – when they clearly didn’t want him? He ought to be ashamed of himself. Steph would be ashamed of him.

Breathing heavily, Will scrubbed roughly at his stinging eyes and felt a sharp pain in his hand. He saw four short curved lines cutting across the palm – the indents of his fingernails, which oozed blood as he rubbed them. The pain was a welcome distraction; Will focused on it and lost himself in it until he felt his eyes begin to close.

He was curled up on the couch, not quite asleep, when he heard the front door open. Steph clomped in, trying (and failing) to be quiet in her clunky boots, which she kicked off with a series of thumps. He kept his eyes closed and heard her pad by the couch in her sock feet, stopping by his head. Will did his best to breathe deeply and evenly and managed not to flinch when he felt a finger brush over the surface of his cheek. The finger stayed for a moment, tracing tear tracks he hadn’t noticed, then left. The loss made something in Will ache. He heard Steph sigh, and then her steps as she trudged into the bedroom. He waited for the sound of the bedroom door closing, but it never came.

Will stayed on the couch, cradling his hand, until he finally fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: terminal illness of a relative (mentioned), homophobic family members (implied), mention of blood and injury (mild). 
> 
> Tom's career aspirations are directly inspired by owlinaminor's amazing fic making home, which you should absolutely check out.  
> stay safe out there, especially anyone attending the protests!
> 
> Explanatory notes:  
> \- "Lond" is short for "University of London"  
> \- Giovanni's Room is a 1956 novel by James Baldwin about an American trying to confront his own sexuality in Paris. It's very good and very depressing.  
> \- Hayes Grove is a town in Bromley


	6. Interview

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please accept this rambling mess; hopefully I will actually come up with something like a plot sooner rather than later

Tom looked up at the sign for _REDBRIDGE RECORDS_ and adjusted his tie for the umpteenth time. Joe had finally tied it for him after a half hour of trying and failing to show by example, and he could swear the bloody thing was trying to throttle him. He took a deep breath, wishing he had eaten something for breakfast, and marched up to the door, pushing it open. He most certainly did _not_ wince at the sound of the bell announcing his entrance.

Redbridge Records looked much as it had the day before, with a few customers milling about, but this time there was a different cashier: a tall Indian man with a dark beard and a white turban, who glanced up at the sound of the bell. His eyes fixed on Tom, who resisted the urge to mess with his tie again.

“Are you Mr. Blake?” the man asked. He looked to be about Joe’s age, but he held himself as though he were much older.

“Y-Yes, sir,” said Tom. “I, uh, I’m here for the interview? I called yesterday about the assistant position?”

The man nodded and walked out from behind the register. He had a slight limp but stood with impeccable posture.

“Yes,” he said, “I spoke with you on the telephone. My name is Mr. Nabhaan Jondalar. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Tom nodded mutely and shook Mr. Jondalar’s hand. He hoped his own hand wasn’t too sweaty.

“How old are you, Mr. Blake?”

“Twenty, sir. Twenty-one next spring.”

“I see. And you are in university?”

“Yes, sir. Studying, uh, teaching, sir. As a subject.”

Tom’s stomach chose that moment to grumble. He briefly considered attempting to strangle himself with the tie.

Mr. Jondalar raised one eyebrow, but he only said, “Let me show you around, Mr. Blake.”

For the next half hour or so he did just that, pointing out the different sections of the store, which sold record players as well as the records themselves and a small handful of posters. Occasionally he would quiz Tom about the music – popular artists and albums of the decade, the best record players, whether he thought _CD_ s would last – and Tom answered as best he could, still slightly dazed. He wasn’t entirely sure this was how a job interview was meant to go, but he certainly wouldn’t say anything about it.

Mr. Jondalar spoke deliberately, like he had thought out each and every word before ever opening his mouth. Beneath his dropped _r_ s and carefully formed syllables, there was a slight accent that Tom couldn’t place.

When they had toured the entire store, including a whole section containing music by Indian artists (about which Tom knew absolutely nothing), Mr. Jondalar looked him over with an assessing eye. Tom did his best not to shrink under it. After a moment, the edges of Mr. Jondalar’s eyes crinkled slightly.

“I expect you at eight on Monday the seventh,” he said. “Do not be late. Wear the tie.”

Tom blinked. “Uh,” he said. “Does – does that mean I’ve got the job, sir?” His voice cracked slightly on the last word.

Mr. Jondalar’s eyes crinkled a bit more, so that he was almost smiling. “It does, Mr. Blake,” he said. “Eight o’clock. Good day.”

He looked amused at Tom’s wide-eyed astonishment and shook his hand again before walking back to the cash register. Tom took that as his cue to leave and exited the shop very calmly and discreetly, before letting out a muffled cheer once he was outside on the pavement.

\--

After returning to Joe’s flat and making himself a chicken sandwich, Tom found himself with nothing to do. There was nothing to watch on telly except reruns of _Coronation Street_ , and he was afraid to touch the massive PC that took up an entire corner of the living room. He had finished part two of _Maurice_ , but it didn’t feel right to keep reading without telling Will about it – he was the one who had recommended the book in the first place, after all.

That gave him an idea. Sure, Tom couldn’t precisely remember the name of the café Will worked at, or exactly where it was, and he didn’t know if Will was working there today – but he knew where the Covent Garden Market was, at least. He scribbled out a note for Joe, which he left on the table – _GONE OUT, BACK BY SUPPER_ – and he tucked _Maurice_ into his jacket pocket, along with another chicken sandwich in case of emergency. Then he left the flat and walked to the station with a skip in his step.

How hard could it be?

\--

“How hard could it be?” Tom muttered mockingly to himself, hours later. By the time he saw the sign for _THE PIPING KETTLE_ – a red wooden sign that depicted plumes of stylized steam emanating from the spout of an old-fashioned iron kettle – his legs felt like jelly. He was glad he had packed an extra sandwich. He paused at the doorway and looked inside.

The Piping Kettle turned out to be a midsized café with large windows at one end and small tables scattered throughout. It had taken long enough to find the place that there was only a handful of customers – it was a bit late for afternoon tea by that point. At the other end from the windows was a counter, behind which a few workers could be seen milling about. Next to the counter was a glass case with various selections of baked goods. On the wall above the counter was a menu, carefully handwritten in chalk. 

Tom felt a rush of relief when he recognized the tallest and skinniest worker as Will, dressed in a blue button-up shirt and a white apron. As he watched, Will glanced over to speak with a short, curly-haired woman in similar attire – a coworker, Tom assumed. He was briefly struck by how very _blue_ the light made Will’s eyes look, before he noticed the dark smudges beneath them, stark against his pale face. The sight bothered Tom more than he was willing to admit, but he pushed the concern to the back of his mind and walked up to the counter.

“Just a cuppa,” he said, peering up at the menu, “and, uh – what scones d’you recommend?”

“Cranberry chocolate’s my favorite,” said a familiar voice, “but really, they’re all good. Made on-site.”

Tom ducked his head to hide the smile that threatened to form. “Better make it cranberry chocolate, then,” he replied, digging through his pocket to find enough change.

“Excellent choice.” Tom looked up to see Will smiling at him from behind the register. The circles under his eyes were more pronounced from this angle, and Tom reminded himself that Will worked long hours, so it made sense for him to be tired. It was nothing to worry about.

“So that’s _one_ cuppa and _one_ scone,” Will said, tapping the buttons on the register as he spoke, “brings it to a pound even.” He looked expectantly at Tom as the machine spat out a sheet of paper.

“What,” Tom said in mock offense, “no discount?”

Will had the absolute audacity to grin at him. “Discounts are for _regulars_ ,” he said teasingly. “Wouldn’t be good for business, handing ‘em out left and right, now, would it? Cash or cheque?” He held out one hand.

“Which do you bloody think?” asked Tom, finally pulling out a handful of coins. He carefully counted them out, stacking them in Will’s palm – because it was more convenient than putting them on the counter and having Will pick them back up, of course. As he placed the last coin, he let his hand linger for just a moment, briefly marveling at how much bigger Will’s hand was than his. The faint red lines cutting across Will’s palm distracted him, but Will drew his hand away before Tom could ask about them.

“Thank you,” he said briskly, carefully placing the coins in the register and tearing off the piece of paper. “Have that out for you just a minute. Are you, uh – feel free to sit down, if you’d like.”

“Sure. I, uh – sure.”

Will nodded and hesitated before stepping away from the counter.

Tom took that as his cue and sat down at one of the small tables in the café. After a few moments of twiddling his thumbs, Will came over with the tea and scone, balanced on a tray along with small containers of milk and sugar. He set the scone down with a flourish and paused.

“I’m, uh, on my break,” he said hesitantly. “Do you – I mean – ‘s it alright if I sit here?” His voice grew smaller and smaller as he spoke.

“I – yeah, no, yeah, of course,” Tom replied, perhaps with more enthusiasm than was strictly necessary. “Of course, of course. I – hi. How are you?”

Will’s face brightened and he sat down heavily in the chair opposite to Tom’s.

“Bloody knackered,” he said, “but fine. Rush for afternoon tea’s ended, so things are slowing down.” He sighed and tilted his head back with closed eyes.

Tom nodded and took a bite of the scone, eyes fixed on the smooth, pale expanse of Will’s neck. He swallowed hard.

“Good, that’s, uh, that’s good,” he said hastily when Will opened one eye and peered up at him with a slightly furrowed brow. “The, the scone. And that you’re, uh, fine.”

Will nodded and sat back up, blinking blearily.

“You said you had a, uh, an interview today? How’d that go?”

“Fine, I think,” Tom said between bites of the scone. “The, uh, the bloke was a bit formal, calling me _Mr. Blake_ the whole time like we’re in bloody Parliament or something, but, uh, I think it went well.” He lifted the cup of tea to his mouth and took a sip.

Will propped his head on his chin and grinned at Tom.

“What,” he said cheekily, “you don’t like being called Mr. Blake?”

“Not by _him_ ,” Tom said without thinking, before choking on his tea.

He heard a snort of laughter that was quickly muffled and kept his gaze fixed on the table.

“Shut _up_ ,” he hissed, “don’t – I didn’t fucking mean it like _that_. Makes me feel old, is all.”

He glanced up and saw Will with one hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking. Will nodded and tried to make himself stop smiling, but he kept bursting into giggles.

“S-Sorry,” he said, “it’s just – your face is _bright_ red, Blake. ‘S hilarious.”

“Yeah, yeah,” grumbled Tom. “Let’s – _shut up_ – uh, let’s talk about something else, yeah? I – um – I got that _Maurice_ book you mentioned.”

To his gratitude, Will seemed to accept the change in topic. He coughed into his fist and his face brightened.

“Really? What, uh, what d’you think? So far?”

The two of them sat for a little while longer and discussed the book – at least, what Tom had read of it so far – until Will looked up at the clock on the wall and cursed quietly.

“Break’s over,” he said mournfully, standing up reluctantly.

Tom swallowed his disappointment with the remainder of the tea and nodded.

“Uh,” he said, “same time tonight? Or –”

“Should be fine,” Will interrupted, hovering near the table half-turned back toward the counter. “I’ll, uh, I’ll call you, how about that? When I get home?”

“Sounds good.”

Will nodded and threw a quick smile over his shoulder before walking back to the counter. Tom watched him go and tried not to sigh.

He spent the entire trip back to Joe’s flat analyzing and re-analyzing their conversation, trying to pick it apart. Despite his best efforts, worry bubbled up at the memory of the shadows under Will’s eyes – had they been there at the parade, too? Or was it something more recent? More to the point, _why_ was he so worried about some bloke he had just met? Why had he gone all the way to the fucking Covent Garden Market on the slim chance that he would see him?

It wasn’t like – sure, Will was proper fit. Tom could admit that; he’d known it since first seeing him. And he was nice, too: fun to chat with about lots of things, like books and being gay and baking. But that didn’t mean –

Tom sat bolt upright in his seat.

“Oh,” he muttered. “Oh, _shit_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I am asexual and have no idea how to write sexual attraction. Also this is partly a Coffeeshop AU now because why not??
> 
> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Black lives matter!
> 
> Explanatory notes/useless trivia:  
> \- Jondalar's first name comes from the first name of his actor, Nabhaan Rizwan.  
> \- Coronation Street is the name of a long-running British TV show that, presumably, has something to do with a place called Coronation Street


	7. Visiting Hours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Will POV, which means it's sad boi hours (but rest assured, things will get better)  
> Trigger warnings for this chapter can be found in the end notes (to avoid spoilers)
> 
> Happy Juneteenth to any American readers, and I wanna remind all my readers that black lives matter! You can help make a difference, whether by donating, petitioning, or even just educating yourself.

Will was oddly giddy to be the one making the call for once, dialing the number slowly and with great care. He wondered, for a moment, if Tom was waiting for him to call, before dismissing the thought as foolishness.

The phone rang four times before Tom’s voice was in his ear.

_“Will? That you?”_

“It certainly is,” he answered, fighting a smile. “How have things been in the, uh, two hours or so since we last talked?”

 _“Fine, they’ve been, uh, fine.”_ Tom sounded distracted. _“I just – yeah. I dunno. How, uh, how was work?”_

“It was fine,” Will echoed. Something was missing from Tom’s voice, and it sent a sinking feeling into his stomach. Perhaps he shouldn’t have called the same day.

“I – they let me take home some of the extra pastries, the ones that’d go stale, so that’s good,” he continued. “Steph loves ‘em.”

_“Yeah? How’s Steph doing?”_

“She’s asleep right now,” said Will with a glance at the bedroom door. “Got the late shift this week, so that’s been loads of fun. But we, uh, um.”

The idea had just occurred to him, and the words were stuck in his throat.

_“Yeah?”_

Will took a deep breath. There was only one way to find out. He squeezed his eyes shut and took the plunge.

“Actually,” he began, “we’re planning to go to, uh, _The Fallen Angel_. ‘S a pub, on Islington, gay – uh, gay-friendly. You know, just have a few drinks. Me and Steph and some other friends, on Friday. Would you, uh. Would you want to – I don’t know if, uh, if you’re busy this weekend?”

He held his breath and waited, opening one eye a sliver.

There was a long silence on the other end.

As the silence dragged on, Will knew he had made a mistake. He had pushed too far, too quickly, presumed too much about someone he barely knew. Tom needed to go at his own pace when it came to figuring himself out – Will _knew_ this. He had no right to be disappointed.

“I’m sorry,” he said into the phone. “I’m sorry. I – never mind. Don’t worry about it.”

The silence continued until Will heard Tom exhale slowly on the other end.

“ _Yeah, I can’t – I can’t make it, sorry. I’m, uh, busy. Um. Family stuff.”_

It was clear in Tom’s voice that he was casting about for an excuse, and it hurt more than Will could have predicted to hear it. He swallowed hard. That made twice now that Tom had declined an invitation from Will. Was it just a coincidence? It could be, certainly. Tom was just busy, which was to be expected. That was more likely.

But was it, really?

Maybe – maybe it wasn’t anything to do with Tom after all. Maybe it was _Will’s_ fault. The thought spread through his mind and illuminated everything with an awful clarity.

“Of course,” he said, after too long of a pause. “I – I understand.”

And he did. Maybe all this time Tom had only been humoring him, tolerating him. He could understand that.

But then, why would Tom show up at his work? Why would he seek him out and then shy away? It didn’t make sense.

His train of thought was interrupted by Tom’s voice.

_“Maybe, uh, next weekend?”_

“Maybe,” Will said tonelessly. He knew how it was going to go.

 _“Sounds good,”_ Tom said, sounding relieved. _“Listen, I – I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later?”_

 _Don’t call me_ , was what Will heard. He did not allow himself to notice what might have been hope in Tom’s voice.

“Sounds good,” he said. “Take care, Blake.” He hung up before Tom could reply.

Pain shot through his hand, and he realized belatedly that it had been clenched in a tight fist as he spoke. He uncurled his fingers and saw that the narrow scabs on his palm had reopened. There was blood under his fingernails.

God, he never knew when to _shut up_ , did he? Tom was probably sick of him always chattering on about pastries and books and stupid things. No wonder he wanted a break. And calling him back on the _same day_ as they had already spoken? How pathetic could he get?

Steph was still asleep in the bedroom, and for a moment Will wished he could join her. Not to talk, not even to sleep; just to lie down, in the dark, with someone next to him. But there was no time for that. He shoved the want to the base of his spine, scrubbed at his eyes, and got up to check the stove.

\--

It sent something crawling up his spine to take the train to Bromley the next morning, like he was twenty years old again, stupid and closeted and cowardly. He hated that he had to take time off from work to go in the first bloody place. He hated that he still remembered the timetables. He hated the feeling he got, as soon as he stepped off the train, that he was being watched. That he was being recognized. The one consolation was that anyone who recognized him would know his parents – and his parents would be just as upset, if not more, that he had come back, even temporarily. God forbid their neighbors learn that the respectable Schofields had a _faggot_ for a son. The thought made a mean part of him happy, in a sick way. He hated it, and he hated that he still knew the way to Priory Hospital – he couldn’t even try to pretend that he was from somewhere else.

When he walked in and asked the nurse at the front desk where he could see his grandad, he almost wanted her to make trouble about it. Give him an excuse to shout, to be angry. An excuse to leave. But she was friendly and helpful, directing him to his grandad’s room. As he thanked her, he felt the fight drain out of him, leaving only guilt and exhaustion behind.

The walk to his grandad’s room took an eternity, and with each step Will wondered if his grandad would even want to see him. Did he _know_? Had he been informed of Will’s _lifestyle choice_ , as his mother called it? His _perversion_ , as his father referred to it? How had his parents explained his absence?

Finally, he reached his grandad’s room and looked inside. His grandad was lying in a hospital bed, his eyes closed, his wrinkled face nearly the same shade as the white sheets. He was hooked up to a collection of softly beeping machines clustered around the bed.

Looking at his grandad, Will wondered if that was what he would look like in the future.

 _If I live that long_ , he thought with a burst of dark humor.

He knocked on the side of the door, lingering awkwardly.

“Grandad?”

The old man stirred and his eyes opened. He looked blearily at the door before his face lit up.

“Will! My dear boy, come in, come in.” He sat up hastily and gestured for Will to come closer.

The delight in his creaking voice was more of a shock than Will had anticipated, and he felt a lump rising in his throat. He cleared it with a cough and walked in, smiling at his grandad.

“Nice to see you,” he said quietly. “I – I’m sorry I haven’t visited yet.”

“Nonsense, you’re here now, aren’t you? When on earth did you get so _tall_?” his grandad complained, peering up at Will. “Sit down, would you? Make me feel like a Lilliputian.”

Will did so, pulling one of the cheap plastic chairs closer to the hospital bed before settling into it. His grandad gave him an assessing look before nodding sharply. The old man’s eyes were as intense as they had always been, but there was a new fragility to him. His hands shook slightly where they lay in his lap.

“Very good,” he said. “I’ll just ring the nurse, ask her to bring some tea for us.”

He fumbled about for the call button with his thin, age-spotted hands and pressed it before Will could object.

A moment later, a frazzled-looking young nurse with enormous glasses appeared in the doorframe. For a moment Will thought he might have seen her before, but the idea passed as quickly as it came.

“Afternoon, Mr. Schofield,” she said breathlessly. “What can I get for you?”

“Tea for us, please, Lucy,” said Mr. Schofield. “My grandson Will finally came to visit. Two weeks in hospital and not a peep from him, can you believe it?”

The nurse – Lucy – nodded sympathetically. “A shame, Mr. Schofield,” she said solemnly, though she smiled at Will. “I’ll be back with that tea as soon as I can.”

She disappeared from the doorway and Mr. Schofield leaned over toward Will.

“She’s a nervous young thing,” he whispered, “but very nice.”

“Lovely,” Will said, hoping it would end there.

It did not.

“Just out of nursing school,” his grandad continued, “lives nearby with her friend. Isn’t that nice? And she didn’t mention any, uh, _gentlemen_ in her life, so to speak.”

Will nodded. “I see,” he said blandly.

His grandad peered at him. “Not interested, eh?” he said.

Will shrugged, deciding it was the safest answer. 

“Well, that’s alright,” his grandad continued. “Soon enough I’m sure you’ll find someone nice.”

Abruptly, Will thought of Tom and the sight of him in the doorway of The Piping Kettle – wholly unexpected, yet somehow inevitable. The thought sent a spike through his chest. He blinked and shook his head as if to rid it of flies.

“Soon enough,” he echoed. Then something his grandad had said scratched against his mind like a burr.

“Grandad, you said you’d been here _two_ weeks? Is that right?”

His grandad nodded and a surge of guilt ran through Will, tinted with anger.

“Tried asking your parents about you,” his grandad continued, “but they couldn’t say. Told me you were busy with _uni_ , like I can’t bloody well keep track of the calendar.”

Will could not quite keep back the wince at the mention of his parents, and he knew he’d been found out when his grandad’s eyes narrowed.

“Will, did something happen?”

Just then, Nurse Lucy returned with a cup of tea in each hand.

“Made them both, uh, how you like it, Mr. Schofield,” she said, setting the cups down by the bedside, next to a stack of his grandad’s carefully folded handkerchiefs. “Milk and sugar. I – I hope that’s alright?”

“That’s perfect, Lucy,” Mr. Schofield said warmly. “Won’t you stay and chat?”

“Oh, I’d love to, Mr. Schofield,” Lucy said, “but I’m, uh, on the clock, as it were. But you need anything, Mr. Schofield, just press the call button, yeah?”

Will’s grandad nodded, looking slightly disappointed, and Will felt guilty at the relief that swept through him. Lucy smiled at the two of them and left. The silence in her wake was charged as it had not been before.

“Will,” said his grandad, “did something happen between you and your parents?”

Will looked down. “In a – in a manner of speaking,” he said quietly. He wasn’t sure whether or not to be grateful that his grandad seemed unaware of the truth. “I –”

He paused, took a deep breath and let it out slowly, running over the possible outcomes in his mind. His grandad might yell. He could handle that; he’d been yelled at before. His grandad might make him leave or ban him from visiting. That would hurt, undoubtedly, but so did keeping it a secret, even implicitly. He _wanted_ to tell his grandad. He _wanted_ to be open about this part of his life that had been kept buried for so long. He wanted –

“Will?” His grandad’s voice, tinged with worry, made him flinch. “Are you quite alright? You look rather pale.”

He caught his breath and sat up straighter. His hands were clenched in white-knuckled fists in his lap. He was going to be sick.

“Grandad,” he said shakily, “there’s – there’s something I should tell you.”

Will’s grandad looked at him steadily. “Tell me,” he said.

Will felt the bile rise in his throat, but he forced it back.

“I’m – I’m gay,” he said quietly, before he could reconsider.

He fought the urge to look away, to _run_ away, and forced himself to look his grandad in the eye.

“I’m gay,” he repeated, more loudly. “That’s why, that’s wh-what happened between me and my parents. They found out, and – I – I’m not living with them anymore. I didn’t know you were in hospital until the other day, or – or I would’ve visited sooner. I’m sorry.” He exhaled.

His grandad looked at him with an inscrutable expression. Then his face darkened.

“What did your parents do?” he asked, anger beginning to seep into his voice. “Did they – did they _disown_ you?”

Will was taken aback. “I – I don’t know,” he answered. “We, uh, haven’t spoken in over a year.”

He regretted his words almost instantly at the look of outrage on his grandad’s face.

“It’s – you don’t need to worry about it, I promise,” Will said fervently. “I – I’m safe, I’m living with a friend, I’m okay. Please don’t worry about me, I – I just wanted to tell you. I w—I wanted you to know.”

For lack of anything else to do, he took one of the cups from the bedside table and sipped at it. The tea had gone slightly cold, but it was still good.

Will kept his eyes fixed on the table as he carefully set the cup back down and laced his fingers together. He felt stretched taut, like a wire about to snap.

“Will.”

He jumped at the noise and glanced up. His grandad was looking at him, with a furrowed brow and his mouth trembling.

“Will, I –” His grandad coughed. “I – well, I don’t know what to say, to be honest.”

Will was going to suffocate from the weight of his grandad’s gaze on him. He tore his eyes away and looked down at his shoes.

“That’s okay,” he said. “You – you don’t have to say anything.”

For a long moment, the two were silent. Will was afraid to look up.

“If it makes you uncomfortable,” he whispered, “I – I can leave. If you want.” He hunched over slightly while he spoke, as if preparing to take a physical blow.

He squeezed his eyes shut and waited. When there was no immediate response, he dared to glance up at his grandad, who was staring at him with a look of bewilderment.

“ _Leave_?” His grandad sounded genuinely confused. “My boy, wh – why on earth would I want you to leave? You just got here.”

Will wanted to state the obvious, but before he could he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. His grandad’s thin hand was stretched across the bedsheets toward Will, palm up.

Will stared at it, confused, before looking up. His grandad stared at him with misty eyes.

Moving slowly, hardly daring to hope, Will reached for his grandad’s hand. When he clasped it, gently, his grandad squeezed his hand.

The lump in Will’s throat had returned, and he let out a quiet, strangled sob.

The old man’s voice was choked when he said, “My dear boy. My – my _dear_ boy. You ought to know this changes nothing. Thank you for telling me. I – I am sorry you’ve been treated so shamefully.”

Tears were pricking at the edges of Will’s vision. He wiped at his eyes with the back of one hand, and laughed wetly. Something inside him was lighter than it had been in a long time.

“It’s – it’s not your fault,” he said thickly. “I just – thank you. Sorry, I’m – I’m making a mess here, aren’t I?” 

Wordlessly, his grandad handed him one of the handkerchiefs from the bedside table. Will accepted it with a muffled thanks and wiped his eyes with it.

“Keep it, my boy,” his grandad said with a watery smile. “You can return it, next time you visit.”

Will nodded, smiling through the tears. He let out a long, shaky exhale.

\--

As soon as Will sat down on the train, a bone-deep exhaustion overcame him, like his limbs had been replaced with steel pipes. He could not have moved from his spot even if he wanted to; instead, he leaned his head against the cool glass and watched the lights outside as they flashed past. Despite his exhaustion, despite the heaviness of his feet, there was an unfamiliar fluttering lightness in him that quickened as he grasped the handkerchief in his jacket pocket. His eyes slid shut a few times, but they opened whenever a beam of sunlight crossed his seat, which was often. When they came to his station at last, he rose with great difficulty and trudged out, and was swept up quickly in the afternoon crowd.

Will kept his head down and walked aimlessly for a long time, thinking about nothing in particular and clutching his grandad’s handkerchief, until he found himself near his and Steph’s building. He was home. He let himself into their flat and looked around, slipping off his shoes and jacket as he did so. Evidence of Steph’s presence was scattered about: her enormous boots, piled neatly by the front door; her favorite jacket, on its hook; and her keys, on the kitchen table.

Next to the keys was a note, written in Steph’s neat, blocky handwriting: _TAKEAWAY (IN FRIG) TONITE NO NEED TO COOK_.

Will opened the door to the small fridge and registered, dimly, that there were indeed paper takeaway boxes crammed onto the shelf. He blinked. He might have felt something like pleasant surprise at the sight, or perhaps relief, but it was hard to tell beneath the fog of exhaustion. He felt the weariness in him rising as he padded to the bedroom door, threatening to consume him. But he pushed it down, gently this time, and kept his movements careful as he twisted the doorknob and slowly swung the door open. He stepped into the bedroom and closed the door behind him with a soft _click_.

Steph was curled up on her side of the bed, snoring lightly. With her makeup off she looked very young, though it was hard to see in the dim light. Moving slowly, Will sat on the other side of the bed and swung his legs over. His feet hung off the end, so he drew his legs up until he was in a position similar to Steph’s, facing the other way. He laid his head on the pillow and closed his eyes, letting the exhaustion wash over him in waves.

Will lay there in the dark, listening to Steph’s steady breathing, until he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: use of homophobic slurs in a character's internal monologue, lots of angst from our boy Will
> 
> Please let me know what you think! This chapter took a long time to come out (ha!) and I hope I've done it justice.
> 
> Explanatory notes/useless trivia:  
> \- The Fallen Angel is a real bar, and I found information about it here: https://www.gayinthe80s.com/2012/09/1984-pub-the-fallen-angel-islington-london/   
> \- Will and Steph living together is my own idea, based on the end of Pride (2014) when he's living with her after leaving his parents' house


	8. Hand in Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Tom's POV with another chapter! Never underestimate the importance of communication. Trigger warnings for this chapter can be found in the end notes. I hope you enjoy!

All day Tom had been antsy, his mind constantly replaying his last conversation with Will in an attempt to figure out what had gone wrong. He had wanted to go to the pub, of course, but the fear had crept back up, as it had when he had stood outside _Gay’s the Word_ for the first time: the feeling that by even _wanting_ to go, he was doing something bad. What if Joe found out? What if his _mum_ found out?

So he had hesitated for a long time, and finally declined, rattling off something about family stuff over the weekend. It was technically true: before he’d left for Joe’s, his mum had wrested a promise out of him to call her every Friday evening. He couldn’t exactly do that if he was at a gay pub, could he? But he could ask her during the call if they could talk Saturdays instead, so he’d have Fridays free in the future. Tom was a long-term planner like that.

He had hoped to explain this all to Will over the phone, but then Joe had had to fucking eavesdrop – the bastard – and he had been left mumbling out something pathetic. Even still, it wasn’t like it was an actual date, with just him and Will – the mere thought made something warm flutter in his chest – so why had Will’s voice gotten so flat? Surely Tom wouldn’t be missed _that_ much, especially if Will was already going with a group.

He’d been confused and hurt when Will hung up so suddenly, so he hadn’t bothered to phone back until the next day, at their usual time. As he sat with the phone to his ear, listening to it ring, he hoped he’d be able to better explain himself this time.

The phone rang for a long time before someone picked up.

 _“H’llo?_ ” The hushed voice was cut off by a yawn.

“Hey, uh, Steph? That you?” Tom was perhaps more surprised than he should have been, considering there were two residents of the flat he phoned daily.

 _“Mm-hmm,_ ” Steph hummed in affirmation. Tom could hear her chewing.

“I, uh,” he began. “Is Will there, by any chance?”

 _“Asleep,”_ Steph said, sounding like her mouth was full _. “What you need him for?”_

“I, I just. I wanted to talk to him. There was a, uh, a misunderstanding, I think.”

“ _Ah_ ,” said Steph. _“Explains a lot.”_

She did not elaborate.

“I can, I can phone back later if –”

 _“I have a better idea_ ,” Steph cut him off. “ _He’s got a morning shift at the bookshop tomorrow. Come talk in person, makes it more genuine.”_

“I don’t – I don’t know if he’ll want to see me.” Tom’s voice grew smaller and smaller as he spoke, suddenly uncertain.

Steph sighed heavily.

 _“Come off it,_ ” she said. _“Bromley’s an idiot, but he’s not a dickhead.”_

“You sure?”

 _“Positively,”_ Steph responded briskly. _“Now – I’ve got to run. Don’t phone again tonight, I won’t be back til late and Bromley needs to sleep.”_

“Okay, I –”

The dial tone cut off whatever else he might have said, and Tom sighed.

\--

Tom made sure to eat breakfast before leaving the flat, and took the time to wash up after himself while he was at it. He most certainly was _not_ trying to stall; it was mere coincidence that he didn’t leave until hours after breakfast. The entire way to Bloomsbury, unease churned in his stomach. What had gone wrong? Why was Will angry? What had he done?

These questions swirled around his head as he walked, but when he turned the corner and caught sight of the bookshop his mind went curiously blank and he stopped dead in his tracks.

It took a moment for him to understand what he was seeing, and when he did it hit him like a punch to the gut.

The word _FAGGOT_ was crudely spray-painted across the front of the shop, in tall red lettering. As he watched, the door – which had one of the _G_ s on it – swung open to reveal a dark-haired man, carrying a bucket and sponge. Another, taller figure followed close behind, similarly equipped. The dark-haired man moved to the _F_ and began scrubbing at it, while the taller blond man started at the _T_ , stretching to reach the top of the letter. They moved as if this were a routine occurrence.

There was a pounding in Tom’s ears, and his chest felt tight. He ducked back around the corner and leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. The urge to run away was overwhelming; if he walked to the shop, if he even looked at it for too long or in the wrong way, some of that blood-red paint would get on him and he would never be able to scrub it off. People would see. People would _know_.

He squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath, focusing on the warmth of the bricks beneath his hands. As he exhaled, the tightness in his chest changed slightly into something less familiar.

Tom did not generally consider himself a very angry person, though he couldn't say whether or not others would agree. He got annoyed, certainly, or frustrated, but real anger was (usually) a rare thing. As he leaned against the building, however, he felt a slowly simmering rage building in his chest. 

It wasn’t fucking _fair_. It wasn’t fair that people could just write awful words like that and leave others to clean up after them – or that it was considered _normal_ at this point. It wasn’t fair that people couldn’t mind their own fucking business when it came to who other people fancied or didn’t fancy. None of it was fair in the fucking _slightest_ , and it made Tom angry in a way he had not been for a long time.

The anger filled him with a kind of electricity that prompted him to turn the corner once again. With the energy running through his legs, he marched across the street and up to the _F_ , only stopping when the dark-haired man glanced up at him and stopped scrubbing.

“Does this happen often?” Tom asked, his voice unsteady. “This – _this_?” He gestured at the front of the shop. There was a rushing in his ears.

The man peered at him. His expression was one of tired resignation, mingled with annoyance. As he looked at Tom, his face cleared, and Tom recognized him from the first time he’d visited the bookshop. He was the owner, or manager, or something – his name started with a _G_.

“Often enough,” the man said warily. “What’s it to you?”

 _Often enough_. The words rang in Tom’s ears.

“It’s – it’s –” he tried to force the words out, but they were stuck in his throat. His eyes were starting to sting. “I – I don’t –”

The blond man turned from where he had been scrubbing at the letter, and Tom’s words caught in his throat. Hastily, he wiped at his eyes with his sleeve.

Will’s eyes widened before his expression settled into neutrality. The dark circles under his eyes seemed to have lessened, and it made relief surge through Tom.

The dark-haired man looked to where Tom was staring and raised his eyebrows.

“You meant _this_ Will, then?” he asked dryly, as Will approached them, holding himself stiffly.

“Uh. Y-Yeah,” Tom said. “This Will. Will Schofield.” All the anger had drained from him, leaving him scraped hollow.

Will stood in front of the two and surveyed Tom with uncertainty. Tom hesitantly lifted one hand in a brief wave.

After a moment, Will slowly returned the gesture.

“Gethin,” he said, still looking at Tom, “is it alright if I –”

 _“Fine_ ,” said Gethin, rolling his eyes. “Ten minutes. Don’t make a mess.”

Will looked away from Tom to nod at Gethin, who heaved a sigh.

“I’ll be back out to help you,” he said, before walking to the door and opening it. He looked at Tom and made a _come on_ gesture to the inside of the shop.

This time, Tom didn’t hesitate to walk in, with Will holding the door for him.

The interior of _Gay’s the Word_ was much as it had been, with a few customers milling about and chatting quietly with each other. Tom stood awkwardly for a moment until he felt a warm hand on his shoulder. He could not quite repress the shiver.

“You alright?” Will’s face was suddenly very close. His hand was still on Tom’s shoulder.

Tom nodded and gulped. “I – uh. Can we talk?”

Will looked at him for a moment, something unreadable in his eyes, before nodding.

“Back area should be free,” he said in an undertone. He took his hand off Tom’s shoulder – which was more disappointing than it should have been – and walked toward what Tom presumed to be the ‘back area.’ Tom followed.

The ‘back area’ seemed to be a makeshift storage room, with a sink at one end. It had a metal fold-out table in the middle, with chairs arranged around it. Boxes and stacks of unsorted books and papers were piled on the floor, with some on the table. The walls were taken up by bulletin boards, which had news articles and photos pinned up. The majority of them seemed to be about the same thing.

“L-G-S-M,” Tom read. “Lesbians and Gays Support the Miners.”

He glanced over at Will, who was watching him intently. “Were you part of this?”

Will blinked. “Still am,” he said. “We do fundraisers sometimes, or visits between here and Dulais. I’m the official photographer.” A hint of pride crept into his voice at the last sentence.

Tom raised his eyebrows and gestured at the photos. “Is _that_ why you aren’t in any of these?” he asked jokingly. He inwardly cursed himself when Will’s jaw clenched.

“It _is_ , as a matter of fact,” Will said flatly, turning to look at the photos. “I – oh, there’s me. Carl took this one, I think. One of the miners. That’s us – LGSM – with the people from Dulais.”

He pointed to a photograph of a group of people, his expression lighter. Tom stepped closer, acutely aware of the distance between the two of them, and looked up at the photo.

Tom recognized a few of the faces, like the dark-haired man – Gethin – and the blond with the hat, but most of them were foreign to him. In the photo, Will was near the back, with one arm around Steph. They were both grinning broadly. A tall, skinny man was on Will’s other side, with a hand on his shoulder and a gentle smile. Next to the tall man was a much shorter woman with wild curly hair.

“That’s Martin,” Will said, pointing at the taller man. “Another miner. He and his wife Sian – that’s her – put me up when we first visited the village. Lovely people.”

“Mm.”

Will smiled wistfully at the photo, then shook his head slightly and turned to Tom, looking more serious. “You, uh – you said you wanted to talk?”

Tom nodded. The air was still and silent, any noise from the front muffled.

“I’m sorry I keep – uh, keep turning you down,” he said in a rush, hoping he wasn’t blushing.

Will looked taken aback. Tom most definitely did not notice the pink patches that appeared beneath his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Tom continued. “My – my mum’s gonna phone me tonight, so – so that’s why I can’t come. I promised her we’d talk. And I – I – I keep worrying about what she’d say, you know? Or my brother. If they, if they found out about me. I _want_ to tell them, but. I’m scared.”

Will looked confused.

“Of course,” he said. “That’s – you don’t have to apologize for that, ’s completely normal. Um. _I_ should apologize, really. I’m sorry for pushing too quickly or – or if I made you feel uncomfortable. And I’m sorry for just hanging up, that was rude of me.”

“No, I – it makes sense you’d be frustrated with me.”

Will’s brow furrowed. “Tom,” he said carefully, “that’s not – I wasn’t frustrated with _you_. Not at all. I get it, the – the hesitation. You need to go at your own pace with this.”

Tom sighed. He sat down heavily on one of the metal chairs and winced at the resulting _clang_.

“I just – I guess I just feel like ‘my own pace’ is – is not moving at all,” he said quietly. He glanced up at Will, who nodded sympathetically.

“Believe me,” he said, sitting down across from Tom, “I understand. Took me a while before I could – be myself. Not try to hide it. I used to make up all sorts of excuses to my – my parents.”

He spoke the last word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Did – I mean, did you tell them? Your, uh, parents?” Tom asked hesitantly.

Will pursed his mouth and hunched in on himself, as if trying to seem smaller.

“Sort of,” he said, looking down at his hands. “Um – they, well, they put it together themselves at first. Bit of a shock. Then I, uh, showed up to my niece’s christening in an LGSM van, which confirmed it to them – and everyone else in the area.” He gave a mirthless chuckle.

“Jesus,” Tom muttered. “That’s – Jesus.” It felt laughably inadequate, but Will nodded and shrugged, still staring at his hands. Tom could see a plaster across the palm of his left hand – the same hand he had seen the red lines on at _The Piping Kettle._ Will was rubbing at the plaster with his right hand.

“Yeah, well.” His voice was quiet. “How it goes, sometimes. Looking back ’s a little funny, but at the time, well. Would’ve been nice to have some control over it.” He sighed bracingly.

“Still,” he said after a moment, looking back up at the photo, “if that hadn’t happened, I – I might still be closeted today. I don’t know. I mean – you have to go at your own pace, but – but it’s better to tell people yourself than to have them find out. I – I don’t want the same thing to happen to you.”

He looked earnestly at Tom, who could only nod.

“I –” his voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat and started again. “I’m gonna ask my mum if we can move the phone time. Then – then maybe, uh, next Friday? If that’s okay?”

Will’s face lit up. “Really? You want to come along?”

“Of course,” Tom said. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Will shrugged. “Probably a lot more interesting things to do on a Friday night,” he said lightly. “But I – we’d love to have you.”

A small smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. He seemed to have loosened somehow, or relaxed.

Tom’s gaze darted back to Will’s hands and where they lay across the table. He could see a path through the books and papers. An idea had appeared in his head, one that had to be acted upon quickly, before he lost his nerve. Tom put one of his hands on the table, palm down, and took a deep breath. Before he could talk himself out of it, or think too much about it, he began to inch his hand across the table as inconspicuously as he could. He very determinedly did not look at Will.

Tom stopped moving his hand when it was a few inches from Will’s. That was about as far as the idea had taken him. He took a deep breath, glanced over at Will, and nearly fell out of his chair when he saw Will staring back at him.

Will looked down at the table, at their hands. His brow furrowed.

Tom hardly dared to breathe.

Across from him, Will looked up.

His eyes really were astonishingly blue. There was something vulnerable in them – or maybe Tom was only seeing his reflection.

Staring at Will, Tom almost jumped at the feeling of something touching his hand. He looked down to see the fingertips of Will’s left hand resting against the edge of his thumb.

As if in a dream, Tom saw himself reach for Will’s hand. He slowly moved his hand to gently grip Will’s fingers – he almost laughed at how tiny his own hand looked in comparison, but that would have broken the spell – and, equally gently, he turned Will’s hand so that it was palm up on the table. He did not look up at Will – he could not, quite yet.

With what remained of his courage, Tom traced the plaster on Will’s palm with his forefinger.

“What’s this?” he asked in a whisper.

“Minor wound,” Will murmured. He curled his fingers so that Tom’s hand was nestled within his. Tom glanced up to see Will looking at him with a soft expression.

Tom let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Minor wound,” he echoed.

The two smiled at each other.

“This is all _very_ lovely,” said Gethin from where he was leaning against the doorway, “but it’s been _fifteen_ minutes and I still have letters to be scrubbed.”

At the sudden voice, Will jumped and nearly fell out of his chair, squeezing Tom’s hand in a death grip. Tom, meanwhile, was fairly certain he was having a heart attack, or that his hand was about to fall off.

“ _Jesus_ , Gethin,” Will gasped. “Fucking _Christ_.” He dropped Tom’s hand hastily. “I – oh shit, your hand, sorry. ‘S it alright?” He looked at Tom concernedly.

“Fine, it’s fine,” Tom muttered, trying to massage it discreetly. “I – I suppose I’d better get going, then.” He stood up from the table and shook out his limbs, trying to get the feeling back into his legs.

“ _Very_ nice of you to stop by,” Gethin said sardonically. “Come on, Bromley.” He turned and walked back towards the front of the shop.

Will watched him go, then turned to Tom.

“I’ll – I’ll walk you out?” he said. His voice was the most hopeful Tom had ever heard it.

Tom nodded hastily, and Will smiled again. The two walked back through the shop – not quite hand in hand, but close to it. When they stepped outside, Tom frowned at the spray-painted word, which had been reduced to _GGO_. He had nearly forgotten about it.

Will followed his gaze, and his smile disappeared.

“I – did you still want to talk tomorrow?” he asked, his face falling slightly. “Cause if, if not –”

“I’d love to,” Tom cut him off. “I – yeah. Same time? You want to call, or should I?”

Will nodded, looking relieved. “Same time,” he said, “and, uh – you call?”

“Sounds grand,” Tom said. “I’ll talk to you then. Take care.”

“You too, Blake,” said Will as he walked back to where Gethin stood with the buckets. “Tell your mum I said hello.”

Tom laughed and waved, before jogging across the street. He could not help feeling relieved that no one was looking at him as he made his way to the Underground station. He would tell Joe that he was gay. And he would tell his mum. Better they find that out from him than from someone else. He _would_ tell them. He _would._

Just not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: one homophobic slur used in graffiti, mention of homophobic parents
> 
> Stay safe everyone, especially if you're protesting!  
> Remember that black lives matter, and that you can help make a difference no matter where you live.  
> Have a good day!  
> Edit: I wasn't the happiest with this chapter, so I've made some changes to it. Let me know what you think!  
> Edit: Dang, some more changes. Hopefully this makes things more consistent!


	9. The Fallen Angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience! Here's the next chapter -- it's a doozy.  
> I'm thinking of having one more chapter and making this whole thing a kind of "Part One" in a series, so I can do some time skips if necessary. (I also need to plan out my chapters better!)  
> Trigger warnings can be found in the end notes.  
> I hope you enjoy!

When Will, Steph, and Jeff arrived at _The Fallen Angel_ , it was like a breath of fresh air – if the air was heavy and saturated with music. As they ordered drinks at the bar, Steph put her hand on Will’s shoulder. He leaned down to hear her.

“I see Lauri,” she said with some trepidation. “I, uh – I’ll see you around. Let me know when you want to leave, yeah?”

Will nodded and grinned at her. “Go on,” he said encouragingly. Steph smiled at him and split off from the trio, making a beeline for a brunette standing off to the side. Will watched her go with a warmth in his chest, but his attention was quickly diverted by the sight of Mark and Gethin at a table.

Mark waved at him enthusiastically, and Will returned the gesture. Mark cupped his hands around his mouth.

“Why the long face, Bromley?” he shouted.

Jeff shot Will a sly look.

“He’s just moping ‘cause his fella couldn’t come tonight,” he said loudly, before shoving Will toward the table and dashing away to the dance floor.

Will sent a glare in his direction but shook his head and sat at the table across from Mark and Gethin. Drinking and fielding questions from Mark, while uncomfortable, was preferable to trying and failing to dance. He picked up his drink and took a sip – watered down, as expected, but still potent.

Mark was looking at him expectantly.

Will gave him a flat look. “‘Nice to see you, Bromley. How’ve you been?’” he said in an imitation of Mark, before answering his own question. “Doing fine, Mark, _thanks_ for asking.”

“Oh yes,” Gethin said, “don’t mind _me._ ”

Will rolled his eyes at him.

“Glad we got that out of the way,” said Mark. Will could not for the life of him tell if he was being serious or not. “Now – tell me about this new _beau_ of yours, Bromley.”

“He’s a – a friend,” Will said, trying not to blush. There was enough background noise, from the other patrons’ chat and from the music, that he had to speak up to be heard. He took another swig and hoped he could blame his reddened face on the beer.

Mark nodded, looking thoughtful, while Gethin rolled his eyes with such force that his head moved as well.

“A _friend_?” he echoed, looking dryly at Will over the top of his glass. “You hold hands with _all_ your mates, then, Bromley?”

Will shot him a warning glare, but it was too late: Mark looked as if Christmas had come early for him.

“Holding _hands_?” he exclaimed loudly, leaning across the table to ruffle Will’s hair before the latter could duck away. “Before _marriage_? Our Bromley’s all grown up! Oh, I’m so proud.” He wiped an invisible tear from his eye and sighed happily, then slammed his hands on the table.

“Now,” he said with gusto, “tell me. Tell me _everything_.”

Will flipped him off and took another drink.

Gethin chuckled. Mark gasped dramatically.

“Bromley, _please_ ,” he said pathetically, lacing his fingers together as if in prayer. “You’ve no idea, the week I’ve had – I _need_ some good news. Let me, let me _bask_ in the gayness, just for a moment.” He laid his head on his arms and looked up at Will with an exaggeratedly mournful expression. Will glanced away and fought the smile which threatened to form.

“It’s _really_ none of your business,” he said, almost shouting to be heard over the music.

Gethin shook his head and Mark bristled.

“It is _absolutely_ my business –” he said indignantly, nearly yelling as the music abruptly stopped. All three of them flinched at Mark’s sudden loudness.

“I – you were my _student_ , Bromley,” Mark continued in a quieter voice. “My _apprentice_. And it’s ‘none of my business’ to see how my student is using the lessons I’ve taught him, is that it?”

Will looked away and took another drink. Mark’s eyes narrowed and his expression changed into something more calculating.

“I _could_ just ask Steph about it,” he added slyly, “see what she says.”

Will sighed heavily and set his drink down. He was going to regret this.

“There’s _really_ not much to tell,” he said reluctantly. “I – we’re friends, I guess? We chat over the phone. That’s _it_.”

This time it was Mark who rolled his eyes.

“That absolutely is _not_ it,” he protested, as the music started again. “You’re blushing, I can see it. Tell me more. You chat on the phone? How long? How often? What do you talk about?”

“I – we just –” Will sputtered. “There’s not – we, we talk about lots of stuff. Stupid shit, you know? Um. He’s been reading, uh, _Maurice_ and we’ve talked about that.”

Gethin smiled while Mark nodded and crossed his arms, leaning back.

“A classic,” he said musingly. “Did he – was it on your recommendation?” He smirked at Will, who pretended to be enthralled with the table.

“I _see_ ,” Mark continued. “Well, this – what’s his name? Sounds like a catch, if you ask me.”

Will snorted and glanced up at Mark. “What, ‘cause he read a book I told him about?”

“Not ‘cause of _that_ ,” Mark said. His voice grew gentler. “Because you’ve had the same little smile on your face ever since you started talking about him.”

Will blinked. He had no answer for that.

“It’s stupid,” he said, shaking his head. “I – sure. I like him. But it’s not gonna go anywhere.”

Gethin rolled his eyes again and let out an exasperated sigh.

“And why not?” Mark asked indignantly. “He isn’t _straight_ , is he?”

Just the thought sent a shudder up Will’s spine, and Mark stifled a laugh at his look of disgust.

“I d—I don’t think so,” Will said, shifting in his seat. “He – his name’s Blake – said he was, uh, _unsure_ about it. Wanted to know how I knew I was gay.”

Mark made a considering face.

“And you think he might just be, what, latching on to you or something? As the first openly gay man he’s met while he’s confused about his own sexuality?”

Will froze. “That – yeah, actually. That’s it.”

Mark nodded thoughtfully. “It’s a possibility,” he allowed. “But it could also be that he actually genuinely likes you – as a friend or otherwise. Have you tried asking him out for drinks, or something? As a friend?”

Will let out a deep sigh. “I tried,” he admitted. “Tried inviting him tonight. But – he had family stuff. And he was nervous, you know, about his mum finding out and everything.”

He was considering what else to say when Mark glanced at something over his shoulder. His face lit up. Gethin followed his gaze and grinned.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” he said teasingly. Will turned around in his seat to see Mike, standing there with a grin.

“Cheers, Mark,” Mike said. “Gethin, Bromley.” He bent down a little toward Will.

“Any luck with that boy from the parade?” he asked. He might have been trying to speak more quietly, but his voice was the same volume.

There was a beat. Gethin burst into laughter and nearly choked on his drink.

Will resisted the urge to flee or hide under the table as Mark slowly turned to face him.

Mike winced. “Sorry,” he said, “uh, was that a secret?”

“ _Bromley_ ,” Mark said with utter delight. “You _have_ been busy, haven’t you?”

Will wanted to die. He actually genuinely wanted to die. His face was burning, and the music was deafening, and Mark’s grin was positively wicked.

“Not like that,” he managed to say. “The – it’s the same. Same boy.”

Mike clapped him on the shoulder and sat next to him, while Mark looked as though he was about to faint from happiness.

“Bromley,” he said giddily, “this is – and I am being _completely_ serious here – this is some of the best news I have ever received. You’re telling me you met someone at the parade on Saturday, and you’ve been chatting with him since?”

Will hesitated, then nodded defeatedly. Mark threw his hands up into the air with a cheer.

“I always knew you could do it, Bromley,” he yelled proudly. “I _knew_ it.”

“Please stop talking,” Will muttered. Other patrons were looking over at their table with expressions of amusement, annoyance, or a mixture of the two. Will caught a brief glimpse of a familiar face with enormous glasses, but it was out of sight before he could place it.

Mark either did not hear or chose to ignore him. He pumped his fists in the air before bringing his hands back down and clasping them under his chin, leaning forward to look at Will.

“But look,” he continued, “genuinely, you should ask him out for drinks or something. Bring him here, yeah? Teach him about gay London. Mike agrees with me, don’t you, Mike?”

Mike blinked and peered at Mark. “What am I agreeing with?”

“That Bromley ought to bring his fella here sometime.”

Mike’s face lit up in comprehension, and he nodded. Mark gave Will a look that said _so there_ and gestured toward Mike.

“He is _not_ my ‘fella,’” Will protested. “He – it’s – I think you’re _really_ making too much fuss about this. I’m not – I – I don’t want to make him – uncomfortable.” As he spoke, his voice grew smaller and smaller until it was nearly a whisper. He stared at the table and could not make himself look up to see the looks on the others’ faces.

Mike put his hand on Will’s shoulder and rubbed it briefly. Will started at the sudden contact and resisted the urge to lean into it. If Mike noticed, he gave no sign.

“Sure,” he said softly, “you don’t want to pressure him or anything – but don’t let _him_ pressure you either.”

Will looked up at Mike, who was staring at him with eyebrows raised.

“Don’t try to be someone you’re not,” he continued, “just so he’s comfortable, yeah? Don’t be afraid to be _visible_.”

He winked at Will and turned to speak with Mark and Gethin, who seemed to have gotten into an argument. For a few moments Will listened to them banter, but he quickly lost the thread of conversation.

Their voices faded from Will’s hearing as he instead focused on the music: one of Madonna’s new songs, it sounded like, though he couldn’t be sure. He sighed and took another drink, wishing he had something to read.

\--

A few hours later, Will’s head was buzzing like a bumblebee as he slumped down on the couch in his and Steph’s flat. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Steph rummaging around in the kitchen. He threw his head back and stared up at the ceiling.

“Bumblebee,” he mumbled to himself with a giggle. It was a funny word. “Bumble . . . bee. Bee that bumbles. Be a bee that bumbley blumbles.” He made a buzzing noise that was cut off by another fit of giggles.

“Razor-sharp wit, you have,” said Steph dryly as she emerged from the kitchen with a glass of water. She set the glass down next to Will and pointed to it, looking at Will sternly.

“Drink that whole thing,” she ordered, “won’t be so bad tomorrow. Or – later today, fuck knows what time it is.”

Will nodded jerkily and managed to pick up the glass. He took a few sips, concentrating on keeping the glass steady, and set it back down with a shaky flourish.

“I did it,” he announced proudly, grinning up at Steph.

Steph smiled at him with fond exasperation. “Proud of you,” she said. “Drink it all.”

Will groaned loudly, but took another gulp of water. Steph patted him on the shoulder.

“Good lad,” she said. “Let’s both of us get to sleep, yeah? I’ll make the bed.” She rose and began walking toward the bedroom.

Will nodded, then frowned and started shaking his head. “Can’t,” he mumbled. “Can’t go to bed yet. ‘S _Friday_.” Something was tugging at his memory.

Steph paused and turned from the bedroom door.

“Yes?” she said with amusement. “It _is_ Friday – maybe Saturday by now. What about it?”

Will screwed up his face and struggled to remember. It was suddenly vitally important that he recall what was particular about Fridays.

“I – she calls me,” he muttered, his mind clearing slightly. “Friday nights she calls me. While – while Jason’s down the pub.”

Steph’s brow furrowed, and she walked back toward the couch.

“Bromley?” she said, sounding concerned. “Bromley – who calls you?”

Will looked up at her and his breath caught. He was overcome by a blank kind of terror, slowed slightly by the alcohol, as he realized what he had done. His heartbeat was deafening in his ears. He hunched in on himself and put his face in his hands.

Steph was going to find out. She was going to find out, and she was going to hate him for being so weak, so _pathetic_ , and he would deserve it.

A hand touched his shoulder, feather-light, and Will flinched. He felt the cushions move as Steph sat down next to him.

“Bromley?” whispered Steph. “Are you alright?”

Will managed to shake his head, still covering his face with his hands. His chest hurt and he couldn’t get enough air.

“Do – would you tell me what’s wrong? Please?”

Will took his hands from his face and gasped for breath, but it was like trying to breathe through a tiny straw. His hands were shaking. His lungs were burning. Was he dying? Christ, _was he dying?_ Was this what dying felt like? Why couldn’t he breathe?

He barely registered Steph’s voice until it was nearly a shout.

“Will? _Will?_ Shit. Will, you need to breathe with me. I’m gonna – I have to touch you, I’m sorry.”

His hand was abruptly grabbed and pressed against something solid and warm. Will looked up to see Steph staring at him, stricken, and holding his hand to her sternum.

“Breathe with me,” she said, inhaling and exhaling deeply. Will could feel her chest expand and contract under his hand. He blinked and was struck by how much smaller her hand was, and how tightly it clutched his own.

Will took a tiny breath at the same time as Steph, and held it until she exhaled again. He did it again, and again, and he lost count of how many more times, until his chest was no longer tight and his hands had stopped shaking. The entire time, he focused on the sight of his and Steph’s hands clasped together.

The two of them sat on the couch for a moment, until Steph took her and Will’s hands from her sternum. She was still holding Will’s hand, which had gone limp.

“Will,” she said quietly, “please, _please_ talk to me. How can I help you if – if I don’t know what’s wrong?”

Will was silent. The blank terror had been replaced with a dull sense of resignation. He would say it, and she would hate him, and he would deserve every bit of it. Best to get on with it.

Will carefully pulled his hand free from Steph’s grip, and began to speak.

“It was a couple months ago, I think. After that party at Gethin and Jonathan’s. You were asleep, or maybe at Lauri’s – can’t remember. I was here. I was pissed, and – and lonely. I was _lonely._ So I called – _Christ_ , I was stupid – I called my parents’ house.”

As he spoke, he stared straight ahead. His expression did not change.

“Dunno what I’d have even said, to either of them. My dad picked up – I recognized his voice, he said ‘Who is this?’ – and I said, I just said, ‘Dad?’ And there was complete fucking silence on the other end of the line.”

Will’s face crumpled and he took a deep, shaky breath.

“And – and then he hung up. So I called my sister’s house, because I – I was already making shitty choices at that point, right? And she picked up. Said we, we could talk as long as it was _secret._ As long as _nobody found out._ So she calls me when she can, never the other way, and we, we talk. And – and – _fuck_ – probably won’t even call tonight.”

He muttered the last under his breath and buried his face in his hands. His eyes were stinging.

Steph put her arm around his shoulder.

“Oh, Bromley,” she whispered. “I – you know –”

“I know!” Will exploded, wrenching himself away from her. “I know, I _know_ I need to let them go, I just – I can’t. I _can’t._ I’m not strong enough.”

“ _Bollocks_ ,” Steph said sharply. She reached up and pulled Will’s hands away from his face, holding them in her own.

“Will, look at me. _Look at me._ ” Her voice brooked no argument.

Will looked up to see her staring at him and grimacing like she was trying not to cry. Her eyes were focused on his with a terrifying intensity. She spoke in a low whisper.

“You are _absolutely_ strong enough, do you hear me?”

Will’s skepticism must have shown on his face, because she sighed huffily.

“I was going to say, before I was so _rudely_ interrupted –” she sniffed and smiled teasingly for a moment, her eyes misty – “that you know – you know I’m here. Me, and Jeff, and Mike, and Mark, and – and Gethin, and Jonathan, we’re all here. You’re not alone. Folks like us, you know, we make our own families. And you’re part of it, Will, you really are.”

Steph let go of Will’s hands to grip his shoulders, and he allowed himself to be maneuvered until he was half-crouching and Steph was leaning her chin on his head. It probably looked ridiculous, and he could already feel the crick forming in his neck, but he closed his eyes and focused on the sound of her breathing.

“I know you’re strong enough to ‘let them go,’” she said softly, “because you’ve already done it once. You deserve better.”

Will made a non-committal noise and swallowed his tears; he was not ready for words just yet.

Steph nodded – he could feel her chin digging slightly into his head – and rubbed at his back with one hand. She sighed deeply.

“Clock says it’s nearly four, Bromley,” she said, trying to be casual. “I don’t – I think it’s time for bed.”

Will nodded dully. He ought to have known she wouldn’t even call, in the end.

“I’m sorry,” he said. It seemed like the right thing to say.

Steph peered down at him with narrowed eyes.

“Whatever for?” she asked.

Will floundered. “I – I don’t know,” he finally said. “All this, I guess. Sorry that – that I’m like this. That you have to – to be here with me instead of –”

Steph shook her head with a tired smile. Her eyes were still red.

“You don’t need to apologize,” she said quietly. Will did not have the energy to disagree.

They uncurled themselves from each other, and Will gulped down the rest of the water as Steph slowly got up. She looked down at him and moved as if to touch his face, before drawing her hand back.

“Let’s get some sleep,” she said softly. Will nodded and managed to stand up from the couch.

The two trudged into the bedroom and lay down on the unmade bed with the lights off. In the dark, Will heard rustling from next to him, and a moment later Steph’s hand was gripping his.

“Things’ll be better in the morning,” she said softly.

“I hope so,” whispered Will. He squeezed her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings for this chapter:  
> depiction of drinking and intoxication, description of a brief panic attack, self-loathing (me? projecting? never!)
> 
> Please stay safe everyone. Be kind to each other.
> 
> Explanatory notes/useless trivia:  
> \- Jason is a character from Pride (2014), the husband of Tina (Bromley's sister).


	10. The Flat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is: the end of Part One (as yet untitled)! Thank you so very much for your patience, and I really hope you enjoy this extra-long chapter. I'm hoping to make this a series, maybe with some oneshots later on. If I end up doing another multi-chapter part, I'm gonna try to plan it out a little better than I did for this one. There will be updates on my Tumblr @grbookworm1818-writes once I have a better idea of what I'm actually doing!  
> Trigger warnings for this chapter can be found in the end notes.

Tom had been awake for about an hour and was beginning to reconsider his decision to finish _Maurice_ first thing in the morning. He closed the book, laid it down, and realized his eyes were stinging. He scrubbed at his face with his sleeve hurriedly and stared down at the cover. Something he couldn’t explain was welling up inside him. He had to talk to someone. He had to talk to Will.

By this time he had the number memorized, but he still glanced at Steph’s scribbled note in _Maurice_ as he dialed the flat. Holding the phone up to his ear, listening to it ring, he wondered briefly what he would say if it was Steph who picked up instead. Perhaps she had read _Maurice_ as well?

The phone rang three times before there was a _click_ on the other side.

_“’Mhm?”_

“I’m gonna tell him,” Tom said, in a voice that sounded strange to his own ears.

There was a pause.

 _“Um.”_ Will’s voice was rough. Tom heard him clear his throat. _“Is, uh – this is Blake, right?”_

“Yes?” Tom said. “Uh, this _is_ Will, right?”

“ _Yeah. No, no, yeah, this is Will. I – sorry, I just woke up. Didn’t expect to hear from you at –”_ there was a pause – _“whatever ungodly hour this is.”_

“It’s half eleven.”

_“Point stands. But, uh, what – what do you mean? Who are you going to tell?”_

“My – oh. My brother, Joe.” Tom’s voice dropped to a whisper as he realized said brother could be awake. He glanced toward his brother’s bedroom. The door was still closed.

_“And you’re gonna tell him – you’re gonna come out to him?”_

“That’s the idea,” Tom said in what he hoped was a bright tone, turning so that his back was to Joe’s room. “If I – if I don’t lose my nerve.”

He heard Will sigh in a crackle of static over the line.

“ _It’s not ‘losing your nerve’ if you aren’t ready for it. Okay?”_ Will’s voice was serious.

“ _I – I’m happy for you, don’t get me wrong. But you shouldn’t come out because you feel like you_ have _to – it should be something you_ want _to do. Does that – am I making sense?”_

“You are,” Tom said with an emphatic nod, though he knew Will couldn’t see it. “I know. But it’s – I _do_ wanna tell him. I, uh, I don’t like keeping things from Joe.”

_“I see.”_

“I just – I finished _Maurice_ , earlier today, and it –”

He let out a shuddering breath.

“It – I don’t know,” he said. “I – it feels like the time to tell him. I don’t know how to explain it.”

 _“That’s okay,”_ Will said. _“You don’t have to explain. What’d you think of the book?”_

Tom grinned. “I _loved_ it,” he said excitedly. “I – oh man. I _loved_ it. I don’t – I wasn’t sure how it’d be, after fucking _Clive_ went and got married. I was afraid that’d be how it ended. But then Alec came along, and it was just like – Maurice wasn’t alone anymore. And when they were at the boathouse –”

He sighed happily.

 _“God, the_ boathouse _,”_ Will echoed. _“I cried when I read that part, it was such a relief. I – I’m_ really _glad you liked it, Tom.”_

“I’m really glad you, uh, recommended it,” Tom said. “Probably wouldn’t’ve read it otherwise – it, uh, doesn’t seem like the type of book you’d talk about in English class.”

 _“Too true,”_ Will said with a laugh. The sound sent something warm fluttering in Tom’s chest, like he’d had a few drinks – enough so that his head buzzed pleasantly. Caught up in the feeling, he didn’t quite catch what Will said next.

“Sorry?”

 _“I said, I guess you’re not the – not the biggest fan of Clive, then.”_ Will sounded as if he were on the brink of laughter.

“Oh, absolutely fucking _not_ ,” Tom retorted. On the other end, Will burst into laughter.

“I – don’t even _talk_ to me about Clive,” Tom continued, reveling in the sound. “He’s a – he’s a coward who broke Maurice’s heart. Absolute moron. I – even his fucking _name_ is stupid. _Clive_.”

Will was still laughing in his ear when Tom glanced over his shoulder and froze.

Joe was standing in the doorway of his bedroom, scowling. Judging by his bedhead and state of dress, he had just woken up.

From the phone, Tom faintly heard Will call his name. He blinked and focused on the phone, eyes still fixed on his brother.

“Got to go,” he muttered into the phone. “I, uh – it’s Joe.”

 _“Alright,”_ said Will, more seriously. _“I’m – I’ll be at the café today til half five, okay? Good luck.”_

“Sounds good,” Tom said mechanically. He turned and set the phone back on its receiver in an exaggeratedly casual manner. His hands were sweaty.

“What’s this Clive done, then?”

Tom flinched at the sudden voice and whirled back around. Joe still looked grumpy, but there was amusement in his voice.

“Must be a right bastard,” his brother continued, raising one eyebrow.

Tom floundered.

“Oh, he’s, uh – a coworker. At the records shop. A real _prat_.”

“Mm.” Joe trudged to the kitchen. Tom trailed along behind him, feeling off-balance.

The silence in the flat was heavy in a way it had not been before. Tom stood awkwardly as Joe opened the fridge to peer inside and closed it again with a huff.

“Need to go shopping,” he grumbled.

“Want, uh, want me to do that?” Tom asked, his words tripping over themselves in their haste.

Joe turned from the fridge and stared at Tom with his brow furrowed in suspicion.

“You’re _offering_ to go food shopping?” he said slowly. “Something the matter?”

“No?” Tom said, with less certainty than he had intended. “I – no. Just, um, offering.”

Joe blinked at him, then sighed and shook his head. “I can do it,” he said.

“Alright.”

The two stood in almost unbearable silence for a moment, until Joe stepped toward Tom.

“You _sure_ you’re alright?” he asked. “You seem – dunno, _tense_.”

“No, yeah, I – I’m alright. It’s just –”

The words were right at the tip of his tongue. Why couldn’t he _say_ it and be done?

“I – I’ve been meaning to, to tell you. Um.”

Joe straightened up, and his face grew serious.

“Yes?” His voice was concerned.

Tom nodded. “I’m –”

He paused to take a breath.

For God’s sake, it was _one word_. Why couldn’t he just _say it_?

“I’m, uh, I’m g—I’m g-going out. Today. Um. Be back before dinner.”

Joe stared at him.

“Uh – okay?” he said. “You don’t need to – I mean, that’s fine? Are you leaving _now_ , or --?”

“Not right now,” Tom said, trying to breathe normally, “but, uh, soon. Soonish. Just – just wanted to let you know.”

Joe nodded, still looking concerned, and Tom made a tactical retreat to his room with what remained of his dignity.

As he shut the door behind him, he felt lightheaded, and ashamed, and oddly, horribly relieved – like he had peered over the edge of a cliff, about to jump, but backed away from it at the last minute. Tom sat on the edge of his bed and buried his face in his hands.

Why was it he could talk someone’s ear off about anything and everything, but he couldn’t say _two fucking words_? He hadn’t thought of himself as a coward before, but – maybe he was. Maybe he was. Tom rubbed at his face with his hands and tried not to cry. Why did he feel so tired? He hadn’t _done_ anything. Falling back onto his bed, he peered up at the ceiling. He wished he could sink into the mattress.

A knock at the door sent him sitting bolt upright with a flash of panic.

“Tom?” His brother’s voice was slightly muffled from the other side of the door.

Tom kept silent. He could not trust his voice not to crack.

“Tom,” repeated Joe, “I – just letting you know I’m heading out shopping. And, uh – whatever it is, you can – you can talk to me about it.”

Tom almost laughed, but he was afraid it would come out as crying. He didn’t _think_ his brother was homophobic, but there was a difference between seeing protestors on the news, at a safe distance, and learning your own brother was – well.

He could hear Joe shuffling outside the room. After a moment, Joe sighed.

“See you later,” he said quietly.

A few moments passed, and Tom faintly heard the front door open and close. He squeezed his eyes shut and took a steadying breath, then opened them. With a renewed energy, he left his room, made himself a sandwich, and grabbed a packet of crisps. After a moment’s hesitation, he grabbed his copy of _Maurice_ as well, tucking it into his pocket.

Tom did not look back as he left his brother’s flat, studiously avoiding the thought that this could be one of the last times he saw it.

He had somewhere to be.

\--

It didn’t take quite as long for Tom to reach _The Piping Kettle_ as it had the first time, but the sandwich and crisps were long gone when he finally caught sight of the ubiquitous sign. He walked in and went right to the chairs, practically falling into one and leaning his arms on the table in front of it. His body felt like it was made of lead.

After a few moments of staring down at the table, Tom became aware of someone standing in front of him. His head was immensely heavy as he propped it on his hand and looked up slowly. Will was standing there stiffly, his hands twisting together. His brow was furrowed as he looked at Tom.

“You alright?” he said quietly. “Not – not to pry. But you looked upset, coming in.”

Tom shrugged and sighed heavily.

“I – I didn’t tell him,” he muttered, tearing his gaze from Will’s. “I, uh, I couldn’t.” He hated how hard it was to get the words out – he could talk someone’s ear off about stuff that meant absolutely _nothing_ , but he couldn’t say the things that actually mattered.

He heard Will sit down across from him.

“The afternoon rush is gonna start soon,” Will said in a low voice, “but I can take my break after that, and, uh, we can talk. Alright?”

Tom nodded mutely.

Will paused, then reached across the table and briefly covered Tom’s hand with his own, before drawing it back.

Tom stared at the table, then looked up to see Will walking back to the counter. He glanced over his shoulder and met Tom’s gaze, then smiled hesitantly. The shadows under his eyes were darker than they had been; the sight sent a stab of guilt through Tom’s chest.

He spent the next hour and a half or so alternating between rereading passages of _Maurice_ , watching the people in line at the counter, and fiddling with the little sugar container on the table. Despite his best efforts, his gaze was drawn again and again to Will as he moved behind the counter: speaking to customers, pouring drinks, assembling little plates of pastries. There was something in his face that suggested a kind of serenity, like Will _belonged_ there. The shadows under his eyes seemed hardly noticeable anymore, in the afternoon light.

Tom only registered that a substantial amount of time had passed when his stomach decided to grumble – quieter than the last time, but still audible. The line of people at the counter had shortened, and Tom had just started to rifle through his pockets for change when he saw Will walk toward him again. This time Will was holding a tray with two teacups, a teapot, and a plate of scones. He carefully set down the tray on the table, then sat across from Tom as he had before.

“I, uh, thought you might be hungry,” he said nervously, lifting the plate of scones from the tray and setting it down on the table. “And I got some, some Earl Grey here – hope that’s alright.” He poured the steaming water into the teacups and slid one of them toward Tom, along with a spoon.

“Course that’s alright,” Tom said, caught between bewilderment and delight. “I – what do I owe you?”

“On the house,” Will said firmly. “Discount for regulars, and, uh – these are some new flavors. Lauri’s looking for feedback.”

Tom froze and his eyes narrowed. “You’re _sure_? I can pay for them.” He desperately hoped he had enough change to pay for them.

Will shook his head. “No need,” he said. “Laurie knows. This tea is old, anyway.”

“Oh, well in _that_ case,” Tom retorted. “Nice to know I’m worthy of _old tea_.”

Will chuckled.

Tom heaped sugar into his tea and stirred it slowly. He had the sense that Will was waiting for him to speak, so he took one of the scones and bit into it. The flavor was difficult to discern, but it reminded him of the tea his mum would make for Sunday afternoons.

Looking up surreptitiously, he saw Will holding his teacup and gently blowing across the surface of the tea, his eyes closed. He probably could have enclosed the entire teacup in one hand, if he’d had a mind to. Tom quickly glanced back down before Will could catch him.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Will asked quietly. He was looking at Tom over the rim of his glass.

Tom hesitated, then shook his head. “Not – not _here_ , at least,” he muttered. Will nodded and sipped at his tea.

“If you’d like,” he said casually, “you could – come over. To the flat, I mean. We could talk there.”

Tom blinked. Something between terror and excitement swirled in his stomach.

Despite Will’s conversational tone, Tom saw that his hands were shaking slightly as they held the teacup.

Tom looked at Will warily. “I, uh – I wouldn’t want to intrude on you or – or Steph.” The words came automatically.

Will nodded rapidly and seemed to shrink. “Of course, I – of course. It – Steph’s out until tomorrow, so there’d be no intrusion, but. I’m sorry to presume.”

The feeling in Tom’s stomach shifted as he processed what Will had said.

“Steph’s – out?” he repeated.

Will nodded. “With Lauri,” he said.

“Hm.” Tom busied himself with finishing the scone.

“Think that one’s lavender,” Will said, watching him. “How is it?”

Tom sipped his tea. “Good,” he said. “It’s – good.”

For some reason, he kept talking.

“Um. If you’re sure – if it’d really be okay? To – for me to, uh – come by. For – not, not for long, but.”

Will did a double take and blinked repeatedly. 

“Yeah – of course it’s okay,” he said hesitantly. “I, uh, don’t want to pressure you or anything –”

“No, no,” Tom said, shaking his head. “You’re not – it’d be nice. To, uh, to talk there. Thanks.”

“Of course.” Will had brightened back up, like a flower given water. “I – okay. Good. Um – I, I have to get back to it now,” he vaguely gestured toward the counter, “but, um, we could walk over? Once we close up? ‘S not far.”

Tom nodded. He wondered what he had gotten himself into.

\--

Will apparently had a different definition of ‘not far’ than Tom – likely because he had longer legs, which was a dangerous route for Tom’s thoughts to take – but they reached the building soon enough and went inside. Will took the key from his pocket and unlocked the door while Tom waited a little way behind him, leaning on the wall.

“Pretty basic stuff,” Will said as he walked through the flat. “Nothing fancy. Uh – kitchen, front room, bedroom, bathroom.” He gestured to each room as Tom followed him, having hung up his jacket. The bedroom door was slightly ajar; Will opened it the rest of the way and glanced inside.

“Bit of a mess,” he said apologetically. Tom peeked in and saw with dismay that the bed – the _singular_ bed – was neatly made.

“What mess?” he asked without thinking. It was embarrassing, but better than the other question that had floated to the top of his thoughts: _why was there only one bed?_

Will glanced at Tom, then at the bed, and seemed to make the connection. He turned faintly pink. “Uh – couldn’t afford another bed,” he said quietly. “Most nights we, uh, alternate between the bed and the couch.”

Tom felt his face heat up. “I – you don’t have to explain. I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Will said. He closed the bedroom door and Tom felt inexplicably relieved.

One of the other walls in the flat was plastered with photographs, each spaced a few centimeters apart from each other so that the color of the wall itself appeared as a kind of lattice. From a distance, the photos appeared to be organized into different-colored sections that subtly blended into each other at the edges. Tom found himself drawn to look at them. It was hard to tell, since most of them were groups of people, but they seemed to be organized based on – perhaps it was by event? Chronologically?

He heard Will walk over, but his eyes were fixed on the photographs.

“What’s all this?” he asked, half to himself.

Behind him, Will chuckled.

“Nothing much,” he said. “The photos that weren’t good enough. So – most of them.”

“Oh _right_ – you’re the official, uh, LGSM photographer. These the _unofficial_ photos, then?”

Will did a double take and turned to look at Tom.

“I – yeah, I guess,” he said, sounding surprised. “Unofficial.”

For a heartbeat he stared at Tom.

Tom felt the blush beginning to creep into his cheeks. Did he have something on his face?

Another heartbeat passed and Will blinked, shaking his head slightly. Tom felt an odd sense of disappointment when he turned back to the photos.

“’M not _great_ at it or anything,” Will mused, “but – it’s relaxing, as a hobby. I dunno.”

Tom hummed in affirmation, and the two stared at the pictures. The majority of them were glossy and whole, carefully pinned to the wall, but some of them were crinkled and stained, torn at the edges, and had been smoothed out. Others had clearly been torn up and taped back together. Tom wanted to ask about them, but did not.

As if he had heard the unspoken question, Will said, “My parents threw ‘em out when they, uh, found out about me. Got what I could from the bin.”

He spoke almost absently, gazing at the photos, and it took a moment for his words to register to Tom. It was like a slap across the face when he understood. For an instant he was seized by a vaguely familiar sense of helpless rage at the petty cruelty, at the thought of a younger Will digging through the trash to find his photographs or watching them be torn up in front of him – but then, being angry wouldn’t help Will.

“I’m sorry,” was what he said instead. “That’s – you didn’t deserve that.”

Will shrugged. There was a distant look in his eyes.

Tom cast about desperately for something else to discuss and pointed at a group of photos that showed various blurred figures on some kind of stage.

“What are these from?” he asked.

Will turned to look where he was pointing, and – incredibly – turned red. He chuckled.

“That’s, uh, that was from the Pits and Perverts fundraiser concert in December ’84. We got Bronski Beat, if you can believe it. It was – it was _incredible_.”

Will had a soft smile on his face as he talked, looking fondly at the photos.

Before Tom could think about it, he blurted, “Why are you blushing?”

Will whipped his head around to look at Tom, with widened eyes.

“I – I’m not blushing,” he said, as he turned even redder.

Tom grinned. “You _are_ ,” he said. “I can see it. Why?”

Will looked like a deer caught in the headlights of an incoming lorry.

“I, uh,” he said, glancing from side to side. “I – that is – well. Don’t laugh.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Tom said solemnly. He bit his tongue to keep from giggling at the conflicted expression on Will’s face.

“ _Don’t_ laugh,” Will said again, with a chuckle. Despite his words, he had a small smile on his face. “I – that’s – um – it, it was there I had my first kiss, alright? That’s, uh, that’s all.”

His voice grew quieter as he spoke, and he turned away to look at the photos.

Tom blinked. He did not laugh. There was a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. He looked at the photos and thought of Will, softer and younger in the dim light, holding a camera and listening to the music with a rapt expression. He thought of someone reaching out to Will – or perhaps Will reaching out – and the two pressed up against each other, Will and the other, faceless man. Would he be on this wall?

The feeling in his stomach grew. Tom promptly shoved it to the back of his mind and cleared his throat with a cough.

“Wish I’d been there,” he said absently, before hearing himself and freezing up. When Will glanced at him, though, there was only a wistful look on his face.

“You’d have enjoyed it, I think,” he said, turning back to the photos. “We got some of the folks from Dulais down here, and they had an absolute ball. Raised a lot of money. It was – well, _beautiful_ , really.”

“I bet,” Tom said. “Beautiful.”

If he was looking at Will as he spoke, that was nobody’s business.

For a moment the two stood in silence. Tom forced himself to look back at the photos, though he could not help occasionally glancing toward Will. On one such occasion he was frozen by the blue eyes that were staring back at him.

Will’s brow was furrowed, and he looked at Tom like he was trying to understand him.

He coughed and said, “Um. Would you like some – something to eat? I could make pasta.”

Tom was not normally one to turn down a free meal, but as he tore his gaze from Will his eyes landed on his watch. It was nearly half seven.

Tom had a horrible sense of déjà vu as he looked to Will and said, helplessly, “I – my brother’s expecting me. I’m sorry.”

This time, however, Will’s face did not become closed off as it had before. He simply nodded. “You want me to walk with you?” he asked. “It’ll be dark out soon.”

Tom shook his head. “That won’t bother me,” he said. “I – I _want_ to tell him. Really.”

“I know,” Will said. “You’ll do it when you’re ready.”

He stepped toward Tom and put a hand on his shoulder. Tom was abruptly taken back to the previous Saturday, to the feeling of the same hand on his shoulder. A point of warmth, to ground him.

“You’re very brave, Blake,” Will said, looking him in the eye. “Okay? You are _brave_.”

Tom nodded and swallowed hard. Another insane, wordless idea had flashed through his mind.

“Can –” his voice briefly failed him – “can I hug you?” His voice was shaky.

Will’s eyes briefly widened, but then he nodded.

Tom reminded himself to breathe. Moving slowly, he circled his arms around Will’s waist and leaned his head on his shoulder, carefully not thinking about what he was doing. He felt Will’s arms come around his torso, hands splayed out against his back. Something came to rest on the crown of his head: Will’s chin. Tom closed his eyes.

“Call me Tom,” he said in a low voice. “Please.”

“Alright,” Will replied softly. “Tom.”

They stood like that until Tom’s neck started to ache, and he drew back reluctantly.

“I – thanks,” he muttered. “Sorry. I – I needed that.”

“It’s okay,” Will said. There was something in his eyes that Tom did not dare look at for too long. “Look – you’re always welcome here, alright? If – whatever happens. We’ll make room.”

Tom nodded and turned away from Will. His eyes were starting to sting, and a lump had formed in his throat.

“I sh—I should go,” he said thickly. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Will said. The two walked to the door. Tom slipped on his jacket and glanced back at Will, at the flat. He blew his breath out in a shaky sigh and nodded.

“See you,” he muttered to Will. He opened the door and walked out quickly, before – before he started crying, or had second thoughts. Before Will could say anything.

Tom did not look back after that. He wiped at his eyes with one hand, and left the building, walking quickly toward the Underground station. His surroundings passed him in a kind of blur, lit by streetlights and the occasional neon sign, until he descended into the station. From there he moved mechanically: paying, boarding, riding, waiting, exiting. A moment later (or what felt like it), he blinked, and he was back at Joe’s flat. Getting the key, unlocking the door and stepping inside were similarly mechanical actions, as if something else was making Tom’s limbs move.

He walked into the kitchen, where Joe was stirring a pot of something on the stove. His brother did not look up – he seemed not to have heard him.

“Hey – hey, Joe?”

He was back at the cliff, looking over the edge. It was a long way down.

Joe glanced over at him. “Oh, hey. Yeah?”

Tom’s mind had gone curiously blank. Perhaps he was already falling.

_You are brave._

He took a deep breath.

“I’m gay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: dunking on Clive Durham (I hate him, so Tom hates him); mention of homophobic and abusive parents; description of coming out to a relative (spoiler [kind of?], because I don't want to keep anyone in agony: Joe is OF COURSE going to be accepting of Tom, but I haven't decided precisely how he'll react yet [i.e. making a joke to diffuse tension, a heartfelt moment, etc etc])  
> edit: small things

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. This is the first work I've ever published, so any comments or constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. Have a good day!
> 
> Edit: I have a Tumblr about this fic now! Check it out at @grbookworm1818-writes for memes related to 1917 and/or Pride


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